#and to think this is just the start of the horror

[carlyraejepsans]

"chapter 4 is about susie learning things can't last forever" so we're just saying words recreationally at this point.

gerson is not gone. i will eat my own shoe otherwise. I'm not sure how he'd come back, since he was introduced with a very specific narrative purpose and he achieved it within chapter 4's storyline, but he's not Gone. his mere existence acts as counter evidence to Ralsei's claim that darkners are unpersons, and the idea that they're "less real" and thus less important than the lightners.

well... if that's true, here's a lightner revived as a darkner. a darkner with all the memories, regrets, appearance, personality and goals as what qualifies as a "real person". here's tangible proof that darkners are as capable of personhood as lightners. if you think darkners don't matter, why can gerson exist in the first place? he's a character who blurs the lines between light and darkness. lightner and darkner. author and character, creator and created.

there's a reason deltarune has him dead and "buried" in the cemetery before the game even starts, next to snowdrake's mother and shyren's sister and the leader of the dogs. it's thematically tying him to the concept of the amalgamates. the medical horror plotline in undertale that's a subversion of the trope that dead things should stay dead and that abominations like them should be "put out of their misery". THEIR personhood and freedom and right to return home and be loved by their families in their unconventional state is at the heart of the True Lab.

when gerson asks susie what ending she has in mind and she replies "i wouldn't end it", he cackles with delight and tells her to hold onto that belief dearly when she writes the continuation of their story. his one wish, in life just as in death, was for the new generation to keep creating. he draws a doodle of the fun gang, hands it to susie, and she gives it back by drawing him into the story. in what world is the takeaway from all this that gerson should stay dead and will never return again.

[apatheticsunday]

Cartoons and Cereal

AKA "Dick Grayson adopts recently de-aged Danny Nightingale. He doesn't anticipate Danny being a little... not entirely human." Prompt idea! Might be a multi-part series. :)

Dick never thought he'd be a parent at the age of 22 but the moment he saw Danny's feral little snarling face at the Bludhaven precinct, it's like he turned into Bruce Wayne. In more ways than one. Dick vividly remembers giving Bruce a heart attack by jumping from the manor's upper balcony onto the chandelier, how he cackled in glee at Bruce wide-eyed expression of terror. Watching Danny float off the couch and then drop in mid-air probably has Dick making the same expression as Bruce in that moment.

The frying pan clatters to the stovetop, pancakes flopping out, as Dick swings over the kitchen island and flings himself over the sofa - just in time to catch Danny before he brains himself on the coffee table. Dick doesn't catch himself before he releases a loud, terrified and relieved, "Fuck!" Danny immediately gasps and loudly proclaims sw'ar jar, sw'ar jar!

"I know, bud. I-," Dick squeezes Danny to his chest. His heart is still beating unbelievably fast and his palms are sweating. "Just give me a minute, okay, buddy?" This has to be some kind of revenge for all the stuff he put Bruce through as a kid. Danny squirms as Dick thinks about the next steps: obviously, he has to test for the meta gene, register with the state, and maybe get in touch with Clark about teaching Danny how to control his flying ability. But Clark will tell Bruce and Dick hasn't even told Bruce-

Danny bites him. Dick yelps, dropping the kid onto his sofa again, and thinks this is definitely payback as Danny cackles. Danny reaches his arms up and grins with a menacing little twinkle in his eye that definitely means pick me up so I can bite you again. Dick resists despite how cute (and terrifying) his kid looks. Then, he smells something burning. Specifically, their pancakes, which are now scattered on the floor and on the burning stove coils.

"Ah, shoot. I'm sorry, bud." They both stare at the burnt pancake before Danny starts poking the floor pancakes. Well. There goes the last of the instant pancake batter. After stopping Danny from eating the floor pancake (multiple times, eventually stacking a couple of his gym weights on top of the trash to Danny won't go digging in it), Dick proposes breakfast at the little brunch place downtown. Danny only grunts in answer because he's too busy struggling to lift the lid of the trashcan.

Haven Coffee it is.

He probably should've expected somebody to take their picture, but seeing the image of Dick and Danny plastered on the Gotham Herald's website makes his blood run cold. It's almost like a horror movie. Reading the news article (Golden Boy Richie Grayson following in his father's footsteps with adopted son Daniel Grayson... recently orphaned son of renowned scientists... suggesting a custody battle between absentee godfather and Gotham's Golden Boy...), Dick feels sick. He's never been violated like this in Bludhaven. In Gotham, as Bruce Wayne's son? Sure. In Bludhaven, as Dick Grayson? Never.

The picture is just as damning (and beautiful. Dick would frame it, keep it in his wallet and tucked into the mirror of his car, if it weren't such a violation of his and Danny's privacy). Dick and Danny look like they've lived together for years. Danny, chocolate smear on his cheek and looking up at Dick with sparkling sugar-crazed eyes. And Dick, propping the kid on his hip while they walk to the car, looking down and thumbing at the smear with such adoration that it's clear to anybody looking Dick loves his son dearly.

(Maybe Dick will frame it. He's still going to sue the shit out of Gotham Herald, but Danny's tiny face looks the happiest he's ever been. Double chocolate chip pancakes tend to do that.)

He's almost, almost surprised when his phone starts ringing as soon as he finishes the news article. Afterall, Dick is hardly the only one who reads the news and he knows half his siblings have alerts set for anytime their names pop up in civilian or vigilante identities. Tim's caller ID pops up, quickly followed by several texts from Barbara, Steph, and Duke. He knows Jason and Damian will probably take some time before reaching out. Dick feels a small twinge of guilt for not telling them, but they have a... complicated relationship. Dick has always been more of a parentified figure, solidified more so when Dick stepped in as Batman for a time, than a sibling.

Danny huffs out a heavy sigh on the couch next to him. He's still asleep from his sugar crash earlier, cuddling with his elephant Zitka and dog Haley, as Scooby Doo plays softly on the TV. Dick gently combs Danny's hair back from his face - grimacing slightly at sticky chocolate stuck to a couple strands, how did he manage that?? - when his phone dings for the last time.

This was the text Dick was waiting for.

Dinner tonight at 7pm. Bring Daniel.

Dick glances back to the grumbling lump beside him, smiling slightly as he tickles one small socked foot sticking out from the blanket. He gets a little bunny kick and a louder grumble for the trouble. Another ping and Dick's lips twitch at the hastily added Please. It looks like Alfred beat some common sense into Bruce after all.

He types back K and tosses his phone onto the coffee table. Pats the lump. "Danny, are you up for meeting grandpa?"

It's time to face the music.

(Danny sleeps for another thirty minutes before Dick can't resist bugging him, enduring bunny kicks and tired grumbles. It takes bribing Danny with Alfred's cookies and pizza for dinner to get him out of the blanket nest. Dick hastily calls Alfred to please, please, please make cheese pizza for dinner. Yes, Alfred, really, just cheese. Oh, god, thank you. See you later tonight. They have just enough time to wrestle an owl-eyed Danny into the bath and some non-chocolate-smeared clothing before dinner.)

[hisosisu]

i had so many that i feel they wouldn't all fit in the tags.

-ripley's believe it or not. specifically one snippet of one episode i accidentally saw about a girl who was (allegedly) born with eight limbs. would not open any of the books after that.

-on a similar note, guinness world records, because of the page of weird body records, like longest fingernails, biggest gagued earlobe, whatever. i clearly had an aversion to body horror at a young age?

-a lot of people in the notes are saying the weeping angels from doctor who, but strangely i never had a problem with them? prisoner zero, however, i had nightmares about. same with the one diet pill episode.

-once started crying in bed at night bc i was scared of one scene from the labyrinth. no, not any of the normally scary things that would frighten a child. it was only the scene where she kisses the goblin on the nose, or literally any of the romantic subtext she had with bowie. at the time i was weirdly terrified of romance and even the most minor pda.... the aro has always been strong i guess.

-one illustration in a theresa stilton book where theyre looking for a burglar and you as the reader are supposed to find him hiding in the shadows on the page. that budded a lifelong (to this day!) phobia of like... hidden... messages? idk think ARG type stuff (even if it's not supposed to be scary at all).

-a glitch i accidentally found in spyro enter the dragonfly where the ground in an area didn't load so everything was floating in the purple fog that usually signified the fall limit before you die. i think if i knew about video game-based creepypastas back then i would have exploded into a million pieces.

-of course many other typical things that scared children; the thumb guys and the floogies from spy kids, the bathhouse lady from spirited away, literally ALL of courage the cowardly dog, many spongebob episodes, one very specific goosebumps story about an endless tube slide, but most importantly that one invader zim episode where dib slowly turns into meat. fuck that episode.

-not a media by any means, but id be remiss if i didn't mention my very hilarious childhood fear of malaria. the virus itself, not the sickness. i did not live in an area that had malaria, i didn't know anything about it, i just saw a plastic model of the virus at the science museum and for some reason that specific one among so many others latched onto my brain. it got to the point where anything that reminded me of it in any way was scary. this included anything shaped like the malaria virus (the letter O, donuts), any word that sounded vaguely like malaria, any mention of the science museum (or in fact science, or museums), the concept of germaphobia, and in fact the concept of FEAR itself. this lasted for probably a few months. i told no one because i was terrified of talking about it. still one of the funniest facts about me ever.

-that same museum also made me terrified of zebra mussels a few years later. i couldn't swim in a lake without freaking out over every single stone or shell i stepped on.

reblog this and put in the tags something you watched that terrified you as a child. i was so scared of the hot sauce in spongebob that i refused to be in the room when it was on

[a-pute11as]

favourited - leila ouahabi

word count - 1.2k | summary - you get caught watching a tiktok of your girlfriend, on repeat.

-

your half-eaten breakfast sat untouched in front of you, now cold and completely forgotten. the dining room buzzed with quiet chatter and the occasional clink of cutlery, your teammates scattered around the tables, easing into their morning routines before training. but your attention was nowhere near food, or your surroundings at all.

what was meant to be a casual scroll on tiktok had turned into full-on gawking, your eyes fixed onto your screen as an edit of leila played on loop.

her hair tied back into her classic match day ponytail, sweat glistening across her skin in a way that gave her a glow, that post-match smirk of hers that never failed to make your heart stutter. the audio ‘favorite’ by isabel larosa, only made it worse. or better. definitely worse.

your favourite part hit again, for probably the tenth time, leila lifting her shirt after a match as she used the hem of it to wipe her face slightly, her toned abs and golden skin on full display as the slow-mo effect dragged it out just long enough to completely destroy you.

you didn’t even realize how long you’d been watching until you heard a voice break through the bubble.

“what the fuck are you watching?” kerstin asked, eyebrows raised, leaning over the table to peek at your phone.

“nothing!” you yelped, startled out of your trance, scrambling to lock your phone and slap it face-down on the table like kerstin would forget about the way you had been sitting there for at least 10 minutes with your mouth gaped open.

kerstin didn’t move, her stare fixed on you with a look that could only be described as amused suspicion. her eyebrows raised as endless possibilities ran through her head. you did your best to look unbothered, but the way your whole face was heating up didn’t help your case.

“stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though it came out more flustered than annoyed.

kerstin only raised her eyebrow further, as if she was proving a point.

“i’m going to get a drink.” you mumbled, already halfway out of your seat.

but you didn’t even make it around the chair before kerstin darted forward, snatching your phone off the table with lightning speed and a teasing grin.

she just held it, watching the way your entire soul left your body.

you froze.

“kerstin, do not do it.” you spoke slowly, as if you were trying to negotiate with a tiger, yet it was really just you trying to stop kerstin from seeing the thirst trap that was currently paused on your phone.

“oh, now i really have to know.” kerstin grinned, tilting the phone up and unlocking it with face id, your panicked expression only fueling her.

“kerstin!” you hissed. you shoved your chair back, heart racing, and darted around the table, arm already reaching out. “give it back!”

kerstin's eyes flicked up and widened with exaggerated panic, but she was loving every second. “leila! quick, quick! grab her!” kerstin called out dramatically, “she’s going to hurt me.”

and right on cue, you felt a pair of arms wrap around you from behind, firm, warm, all too familiar.

“hola amor,” leila murmured into your ear, pulling you gently back against her chest, halting your mission mid-step, “what’s going on here?”

your breath caught in your throat, “leila.” you squeaked, voice much too high-pitched to pass as casual.

you tried to wriggle free, but she tightened her hold, “i heard my name, i think i’m here to protect kerstin.”

“lei, please let me go.” you pleaded, watching in horror as kerstin’s face lit up like a kid at christmas, hearing the sound of the tiktok edit start playing.

“oi leila,” kerstin smiled sweetly, already holding your phone up. “have a look at what your girl’s been watching on repeat for the last ten minutes.”

“it wasn’t even ten minutes…” it was definitely ten minutes.

you silently made an attempt to get out of leila’s arms, yet instead she just wrapped them around you tighter, her head now resting comfortably on your shoulder. 

kerstin’s smile didn’t waver, especially when she proudly rotated your phone screen so it was facing leila, and half the dining room.

several of your teammates were now watching the scene unfold from the nearby tables. lauren was giggling as she filmed it all unfold with her own phone, bunny practically snorted into her cereal, and alex looked downright amused.

“what’s going on?” mary asked, joining the crowd forming, her face slightly twisting as the video replayed for what felt like the 1,000th time. 

and there it was, your phone in kerstin’s hands, proudly displaying the tiktok. leila in all her glory, abs gleaming under the sun, hair bouncing as she ran, that stupidly perfect smirk caught in high-def slow motion. the 30 second clip from the song repeating, painfully, for everyone to hear.

leila blinked, her head tilting slightly, before letting out a soft, stunned laugh, “is this me?”

“no,” you lied, face burning, “well yes, but look, it’s a good edit, okay. it came up on my for you page so i watched it and got distracted so it kept playing, it’s not my fault it’s so good.” you rambled, the words just slipping out your mouth.

“wait, she’s saved the video to her favourites too!” khiara noticed, only adding fuel to the fire. 

“khi! you didn’t need to point it out.” you shrieked, earning a seemingly innocent smile from khiara.

kerstin turned your phone around to her, tapping away at the screen until her eyes widened in discovery. all you could do was watch, leila’s arms being the only thing stopping you from launching yourself at kerstin. 

“she has a whole folder saved of leila edits.” she shouted, which was quickly followed by a chorus of different tiktok sounds adjoined to clips of your girlfriend you had meticulously favourited. 

and as the sounds played, you could picture the exact videos that matched.

leila laughed, arms still wrapped securely around you, “it is a pretty good edit to be fair.”

you groaned, melting further into her hold, “i’m never living this down.”

“nope,” kerstin grinned happily. “but on the bright side, at least now we all know who your favourite is.” 

you turned in your girlfriend's grip, hiding your head in the crook of her neck as your whole body felt like it was on fire.

“if it helps, i have a folder full of edits of you too.” leila whispered, craning her neck down ever so slightly so her words were reserved just for you. 

you thought about it for a moment, content with the thought that leila also watched similar videos about you, yet the whole team didn’t know that too. “it does, but only a little though.” you mumbled, her hoodie hiding the small smile that had just appeared on your face.

even though you could hear the sounds of the many, many, MANY tiktoks edits you had saved of leila playing in the background, at least you knew she had a folder that was just as bad.

a/n - thank you for reading! if you have any feedback/requests my inbox is open <3 also peep the edit i used in the header, 100% one of my favourite edits, those barca open training clips will never die 😩

[haloangelfics]

FOR HIM, AGAIN

chapter one

"Couch, couch, couch!" Zoey, Mira, and Y/n cheered in unison, stumbling into the living room with arms full of snacks.

They crashed onto the couch like war heroes returning from battle. The soft cushions welcomed them, melting months of stress from their bodies.

“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” Zoey sighed contentedly, wriggling into the plush comfort like a satisfied cat.

Y/n simply nodded, stretching out along the longer side of the couch. For once, her body was still. At peace.

A break.

Finally,

After weeks of back-to-back calls, last-minute crisis , endless interviews—silence. Blissful, precious silence.

But her mind couldn’t rest. Not truly. Not when she knew this peace was borrowed time.

Her eyes flicked to the other girls—Zoey and Mira, laughing softly, already sharing snacks. They were everything Y/n wished she could be. 

Real. Human. Free.

She blinked away the thought, but it came back louder. The mission. That cursed reminder that echoed through her bones.

She hadn’t come here to make friends. She hadn’t come here to belong. She came with a purpose—a dark one.

Her chest tightened.

And then the voice came.

“Is that doubt I hear, little princess?”

The voice coiled in her skull like smoke, poisonous and mocking.

“Remember your duty. Fail, and I’ll make sure these voices tear through you—day and night.”

Y/n flinched, hands flying to her ears as her breath grew shallow. She curled into herself, blinking rapidly as the sting of tears crept in. A warm hand touched her shoulder, making her flinch.

"Y/n?" Zoey’s voice was soft. Mira leaned over, brows furrowed with concern. "You okay? What happened?"

Y/n forced a smile, shaky but believable.

"I’m fine. Just… thinking about how far we’ve come. It’s kind of bittersweet knowing I’ll be leaving soon.”  The partial truth is always better than a full lie.

Mira frowned but didn’t press. “Yeah, it sucks. But after I retire, we’re definitely getting matching tattoos.” She held up a fist with a smirk. "Hell yeah," Y/n grinned, and for a moment, the weight lifted. They melted back into the couch like nothing had happened.

Y/n closed her eyes, a small smile spreading her lips. Just for a few more days, just a little while longer to feel this peace. She needed a bit more time to feel emotions that weren't despair , remorse and grief. 

A familiar voice broke her thought pattern, opening her eyes, she squinted at Rumi who was standing in the doorway with a devilish grin—and wearing the single , Golden performance costume. “Heyy. Have a good break?”

"No, What? We literally just sat down" Mira groaned, sitting up.

Not seeing this as a good sign, Y/n grabbed her phone hoping that what she thinks isn't true.

"No way she released it already." She muttered to herself, quickly opening YouTube.

"Rumi, why are you in costume?" Zoey asked, panic rising in her voice as she gave a nervous chuckle. 

"Rumi, you didn’t!" They both cried in horror.

Rumi only shrugged with a smug smile, making Y/n sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose staring at her phone “Unfortunately… she did and better yet promo starts tonight.”

Groans echoed from the couch. "We just sat down!" Rumi tossed their costumes at them with glee. 

Y/n rolled her eyes but then turned her phone to show the screen. “Look on the bright side—Golden just hit #1 globally. Less than an hour since release.”

Hearing that cheers erupted from the girls. They jumped from the couch, snacks long forgotten.

"LET’S GOOOO PROMO!" Y/n shouted, laughing with them as they scrambled to get ready.

- 

The stage lights were glowing hues of gold and white as the girls were performing Golden. Even when performing they looked stunning, energetic and most of all genuine, like they would give nothing in exchange for this. 

Y/n watched from the screen backstage, a proud smile on her face as she looked at them perform. For the first time in centuries, she felt soft....happy even. All the other times the only emotions she felt were grief , misery and remorse. An emotion suited for a creature, for a demon like her. The voices in her head were proof of that. 

People may think demon's don't feel from old folklore but that's all demons do. They feel, they indulge in their feelings that slowly eat them away , day by day , week by week , year by year....the voices in them only grow louder as time goes on, serving as a constant reminder of why they are here in the first place.

Shaking off those thoughts, Y/n looked back up at the screen, seeing Rumi's voice crack. 'Huh? That's strange? Rumi's voice never cracks' she thought to herself as they started performing again.

"I'm done hiding 

Now i'm shining

Like i'm born to-"

Rumi let out a cough, her voice cracking in the process. Zoey and Mira looked worried as they asked if she was okay. Y/n was worried as well, she saw on the screen that Rumi showed five fingers, usually meaning she was going to take a five minute break.

The live starts in ten minutes though, Y/n thought to herself before taking off from her place. She was worried, what happened to Rumi? These past few days she hasn't even been herself, does this have to do something with the Honmoon? 

"I hope she's okay," Y/n muttered to herself, her footsteps quickening as she neared Rumi's dressing room. The hallway was quiet, the usual buzz of backstage chatter eerily absent. Just as she was about to turn the corner, a sharp pain struck her side—sudden and jarring, like a needle piercing through muscle.

White-hot pain exploded in her chest. Her knees buckled. She fell to the floor, gasping. She tried to hold onto something…anything, the pain got worse , tears covering her vision as the voices in her head became louder.

"No no no" she chanted to herself, hugging her knees. Sweat slid down her forehead as she looked up and there it was, the one thing she despised more than herself.

Above her, violet fire ripped through the sky, blooming like wings. Crackling. Hungry. Unnatural.

Gwi Ma.

The sole reason for her misery, the sole reminder of her misery. Her teary eyes now became void of emotion, her lips one trembling now formed into a straight line. Just like she had practiced all those years ago, never show him your weakness. 

"It's come to my attention that my little princess has started to show care for a useless demon hunter, hm?"

Y/n didn’t move. Her breath was ragged, her eyes locked on the flames. Her face was cold, unreadable despite feeling disgust when he had called her his as if she was his prized possession. 

"I’m doing what you asked," she said, voice cold and distant. The fire surged, burning her human skin as she took a step back in pain.

“Watch your tone. I own you.”

In a blink, her disguise dissolved. Y/n stood—not as their cheerful manager—but in her true form. A black dress, shredded at the ends, clung to her pale purple skin. Glowing golden eyes pierced through the smoke. Jagged violet markings coiled along her arms. The air crackled with her power, both divine and damned. 

She hated her true form, hated the creature she was beneath her disguise and yet she stood tall not letting her fear come to surface 

"Don't forget who you are, princess" Gwi Ma's voice grumbled, shaking the ground beneath her.

- 400 years ago -

Y/n L/n , Princess of the women led country, Yurina. A country with a 70% women population, everything there was led by a woman. From small street markets to the throne. A throne that belonged to her sister, Miria. 

Despite being born royal, Y/n didn't feel like it. All the tea parties , ball gowns and official events she had attended alongside her sister, made her realise how fake being royal can truly be. 

From the moment she could walk, she was guided each step, not on her own but by the expectations of others, her family, her beloved sister. Hands were on elbows all the time. Voices whispering instructions in her ears.

“Smile, Princess Y/n.” “Sit straight, Princess Y/n.” “Don't speak unless spoken to Princess Y/n.” All these voices were a constant reminder that she had to do what to be told. 

She couldn’t see the world like others did, but she could feel it — heavy, structured , suffocating. Every hallway in the palace was lined with history untold to the world, history she'd never be allowed to escape. Thus, it all led to one thing and one thing only.

The Throne. 

From young, everyone who was close to her made sure to let her know that she was the next in line, the next to rule the world. At least, that's what the scrolls said. But the palace never truly considered her a worthy queen, worthy to lead the people of Yurina. Not because she was uneducated or unkind — which is not true — but the sole fact that she was born blind, born with a defect that brought shame to her family's name, her sister's name.

The palace people pitied the poor girl in silence, never once bringing it up. They had acted as though blindness made her as fragile as a glass. Her sister, the Queen, loved her deeply and did everything to protect her from the world's cruelty, the world that Y/n couldn't and would never see but in reality even love has its boundaries.

-

  One day, a traveling bipa player arrived at the palace gates. His name was Jinu—a commoner wearing torn and worn out clothes, so shoes to protect his feet and bipa on his hands. He was brought to perform before the court as a novelty, someone to entertain the nobles with melodies from the outside world.

Y/n's sister raised her hands as a silent motion to begin. 

The moment his fingers touched the strings and his voice rose into the air, the entire room fell silent.

"I came with nothing but chords and air,

A voice to wander, an open heart everywhere.

But in your stillness, I was addressed by name,

A spirit untagged by rank or fame.

No need of vision to truly see,

For in your silence, you looked at me."

It was as if the heavens had kissed his throat and left gold and honey behind.

Y/n listened to the man’s voice, her breath caught in her throat. She has never heard such a beautiful and melodic voice. At this moment Y/n had never wished more to be able to see someone’s face. Her calm and stoic turned into one that held softness as she continued listening to him, fingers tapping to the rhythm. 

The Queen, her sister noticed the way Y/n leaned forward, how her face softened with each note.

“He is just a measly commoner Y/n, don’t fall for it, afterall royalty and commoners are like water and oil..they never match” her sister warned her. Hearing those words Y/n quickly returned to her usual expressionless face. Her once tilted lips now formed a straight line , her tapping hands folded nicely on her lap. 

The song ended as Jinu bowed his head at the nobles. Y/n's sister looked at the man's filthy state taking a slight pity on him, a beautiful voice but a dirty face.

Y/n felt a shift beside her, Miria got up walking to the bipa player slowly , confidently. Like a lion locking its next target.

“So, commoner…you sure do have a voice blessed by the heavens” she started, circling him slowly. He looked at her, eyes that held nothing but fear. The Queen had the right  to do anything to him then and there, after all she was the highest authority in the kingdom.

“And my sister seems to have taken an interest in you.”

Jinu's head turned sharply toward you. You felt his gaze before he even said a word — long, hesitant, like he couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

He didn’t speak. Just… stared. As if you were a question he didn’t know how to answer.

You sat still, expression unreadable, used to people staring for the wrong reasons. But his stare felt different. Less like judgment. More like awe.

Like he had never seen someone like you before — like you didn’t belong in the same world as him.

Snap.

The queen’s fingers cut the air, and Jinu blinked, startled back into the present.

“She is off-limits,” the queen said sharply. “And she is your future queen.”

His shoulders tensed. He didn’t argue, just swallowed hard as the queen stepped closer, her presence overwhelming.

“Tell me your price,” she said, her voice crisp.

He hesitated. “P… price?”

“Yes.” Her tone was steady. “What do you want in exchange for staying here?”

Jinu looked down at his hands. Calloused. Scarred. Out of place in this glittering palace. His voice came low, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to say it out loud.

“I… I want to be full. I want to have more than scraps. I want a room with a door that locks. Food that doesn’t run out.”

He paused, then added, even softer

“I want my mother to stop breaking her back working jobs that never pay enough. I want my sister to wear clothes that haven’t been passed down three times. I want them to feel safe. Warm. Proud.”

There was silence. And then the queen asked, without hesitation, 

“Choose one.”

Jinu froze.

You could feel the shift in the room — the weight of her words dropping like stone.

His breath hitched. He didn’t speak right away.

And in that silence, you heard it all — the guilt, the torn loyalty, the hope that maybe, somehow, he wouldn’t have to choose.

But he did.

And when he finally looked up, his voice cracked as he said, “I…I choose me.”

It wasn’t a proud answer. It wasn’t brave. It was small. Quiet. Heavy with shame. He looked like he hated himself for saying it — but not enough to take it back.

You stayed still, letting the truth of it settle.

He had the chance to give them the life he always wanted for them — but for once, for the first time maybe… he wanted to be the one who got saved.

And he said it out loud.

And somehow, that honesty — that raw, broken choice — felt sadder than any silence.

“Very well then. Neela , Sumi get this man a room, clothes and some food to eat” The Queen told her ladies in waiting , they did as she told and took him away.

Y/n felt her sister's presence beside her again. 

A cold hand touched her chin, lifting it. “Y/n you know I love you and would give the world for you…so please don't take my words the wrong way. Remember how Ma married our father who was a commoner and where did he lead her? Nowhere.” Maria's thumb caressed Y/n cheeks as she looked at her with loving eyes.

“I don't want the same thing to happen to you, I know what's best for you”

And with that, her sister left. Guards following her, leaving Y/n alone in the throne room…alone with her thoughts. Thoughts of a certain bipa player.

- Present  -

Y/n's eyes stayed locked on the purple flame, but they shimmered now—wet with unshed tears. Memories clawed their way to the surface, unwanted and unrelenting. 

Every flicker of the flame pulled at a thread in her chest, unraveling the pain she had buried so carefully.

Then came the voice.

“I see I’ve hit a nerve, princess.”

Gwi Ma's voice was a low, wicked drawl—taunting, almost amused. The purple flame responded to his twisted amusement, burning hotter, more intensely—brighter than the sun.

Y/n didn't stir, but the sorrow in her eyes transformed into something else. Anger. Her jaw clenched, her fists were tightly closed at her sides. Her lips were pressed into a thin, tight line.

"Either you want this done, in which case let me go back," she spat, her voice rough with emotion. "Or don't waste my time."

There was an icy silence. Then that detested voice again—smooth, sadistic.

"As you wish," he drawled, his smile even in the silence as his voice moved back into the darkness. "But remember this… whatever you do… he'll never be yours."

And the world snapped back.

Y/n gasped, jolting forward as if she'd been submerged underwater. Her hand flew to her chest, fist curling into the material as her heart thrummed wildly beneath. Sweat rolled down her temple, her breath coming in short stabs. The cold of reality closed back in around her—but the ache in her chest remained.

Bang.

The loud bang of a door slamming shut made her startle.

Footsteps—quick and desperate—echoed down the hall. Her eyes snapped toward the sound, catching a glimpse of long, purple hair disappear around the corner.

"Rumi…" she breathed, recognition hitting her like a lightning bolt. No delay—Y/n took off after, feet pounding against the ground.

They weren't at the rooftop yet, but Rumi was heading there. Y/n's instincts screamed it.

As she crept closer, she saw it—Rumi with her back to her, pulling off her jacket with shaking hands. The light danced across her skin.

Y/n froze.

Her breath hitched.

Scars.

Not just any scars—marks. Red, brutal burn marks seared into her skin, the same as Y/n's. The ones that never faded. The ones that pulsed when the demon inside stirred.

Y/n's blood ran cold.

"A human…?" she whispered, stepping back into the shadows, heart racing.

"No… not just human."

Her voice was a whisper.

"A human… who's half demon?"

taglist : @scara-simp69 @zuoran03 lots of love, angel

[cheerfulmelancholies]

Elliot stared at the blurry mass of writhing shadow and smoke, indifferent to the power of the being before him. It wasn't that he wouldn't feel threatened by an immensely powerful being beyond the realm of humanity's conceivable physics—rather, because the entity was so outside the range of human understanding, all Elliot could do was tilt his head at it in befuddlement.

"I don't get it," he said plainly as the massive being shifted about almost as if it were vibrating in place. Its only discernible features were the several ruby red eyes dotted about its form. "You made it sound like just looking at you would cause complete agony, but you're just, like, a giant blob of darkness. With too many eyes." Said eyes narrowed at him as a voice echoed both within his mind and the air around them.

"You should be trembling in fear, paralyzed by the mere sigh of me," it rumbled, observing the tiny speck of the mortal standing beneath itself with rare curiosity. "Yet you gaze upon me like I am little more than one of the fauna of your world."

"Well…" Elliot started, trailing off as he scratched the back of his head. "I'm just not sure what exactly I'm looking at here. I know being incomprehensible is the point and all, but… maybe you're doing too good a job at that."

Quaz'el'Far, in all its infinite wisdom from eons of roaming realities on a whim, for once felt unsure of what to do. What a strange statement. It had never witnessed a mortal with immunity to its unknowable horror, much less one that would act so calm in the face of something like itself. "I do not understand," it admitted, reluctant to make such a statement.

"Welcome to the club, buddy," Elliot sighed. He glanced around at the empty space he'd been brought to, a pocket dimension that was supposed to be punishment for the human mind. Apparently. Though it was rather lackluster. While he'd heard of white rooms being hell on the psyche, he didn't think an eldritch being would rely on something so… boring. If he strained his eyes hard enough, he could almost make out the faint shapes and colors dancing around the white void, but even then it did little more than give him a slight headache from the effort.

"How is it that you see me, yet you remain unaffected by my presence?"

Elliot redirected his attention to the mass of shadow, matching the slow blink of its eyes with his own. "Look, Quail-uh, Que-hmm… Listen, Q, I'm sure whatever freaky powers you have outside of teleporting people to empty voids are absolutely terrifying. It's just… looking at you, you just look like a vibrating blob of shadows and eyes. That's it. Maybe you're supposed to be more than that and my tiny human brain can't handle it so it just… fills you in with stuff it does know."

The human brain was funny like that.

It was an interesting statement, and one that Quaz'el'Far spent considerable time pondering. These humans had evolved to such a state that they could simply ignore its mind-shattering form in favor of something they could understand? A sharp jolt pulsed through its body, the feeling unfamiliar until it recalled the reactions of the many mortals it had destroyed.

Fear was an unfamiliar concept to the unknowable being, and it found that it did not care for the feeling.

Elliot, growing bored of both the conversation and being stuck in the nowhere space, continued. "If, uh, if we're done here, can I maybe go now? I'm gonna be late for work…"

What nonchalance! As if an all-seeing god meant nothing! Quaz'el'Far drew itself back from the perplexing mortal, eyes gazing through the timelines in an attempt to pinpoint when humanity had begun to obtain this… this disgusting indifference.

No matter how many timelines it parsed, how many universes it peered into, there was no other mortal with such mental fortitude as this one. The concept that one mere human could be capable of such an ability staggered it. If this human could withstand its presence, what else was it capable of? It didn't want to learn.

Inhuman eyes blazed as the great Quaz'el'Far stared down at the mortal in fear and disgust. "You may return to your life, mortal," it began as it opened a portal beside the horrid abomination. "My apologies for having kept you."

"Oh! Uh, no worries. Thanks, mate!" With a wave, Elliot stepped through the swirling mass of color and warmth. As it closed behind him and he found himself back in front of his apartment complex, he wondered if the portal was also supposed to be some incomprehensible horror his mind shouldn't have been able to fathom. It was a good thing humans were so good at putting things together with limited info. So when he glanced at his phone and saw the time, he already knew before he started jogging to the bus stop that he'd be late, would walk in mildly sweaty, and John would chew him out for his tardiness yet again. The entire interaction with the weird shadow monster was already pushed to the back of his mind, waiting to be forgotten like his lunch box already had been.

You bear witness to a horror beyond your comprehension. However, because you don't comprehend it, you....just don't get it. The horror in question is terrified by this.

[midoriiakina]

Soulmate AU where soulmates share a bond that gives them something like Dermatographia, (skin writing). Even the lightest scratch leaves a mark for up to 30 minutes, allowing them to write to one another, if they wish.

But there's another, deeper kind of bond, where soulmates are forced to share their pain between the two (or more) of them, feel every cut, every bruise, every burn, as if it were their own.

Imagine a Civilian!Reader being bound to the boys in the 141, all four of them at once, and the boys have no idea. They're all together, thinking that it's just the four of them.. Until something happens to Reader, either by her own hand or by the hand of another, and they realize with mounting horror that there's another, one they never even realized was there, feeling all of their pain as if it were her own, and now it was their turn to feel hers.

(I can also imagine that the boys used their bond to write messages to each other while on missions. Think about it, it's a totally secure way to share intel. Why wouldn't they? And now they realize, they were sharing that incredibly sensitive intel with an unknown party, a soulmate they had no idea even existed.)

What lengths would they go to, to find their missing fifth? If her injuries are severe enough, would they arrive in time to save her?

How desperately would they be writing over their own skin, covering their forearms in hasty chickenscratch, raised red lines spelling out desperate pleas for her name and location, so they could find her...

(This is just a free-to-good-home writing prompt. I don't care who uses it, just tag me in whatever you post inspired from it. I wanna see what y'all come up with~! Love you!)

(Edit: I'm a horrible, horrible person. I just imagined a scene where the boys are all on leave, living together in the same place. Then they feel it, the kind of pain they knew came from (being shot, being in a car accident, dealer's choice.). Instantly, they're struggling to their feet and trying to find their soulmates, one after another. John is in the kitchen, he's fine, Simon is in the back bedroom, he's also fine, Johnny was in the shower, he's fine, and Kyle was in the living room watching TV, he's fine too.. They're all fine.. So what the fuck..? And then it hits them, there's another, someone else who feels their pain and now they're feeling hers. Then they're desperately writing their names and phone numbers onto their own arms, trying to give Reader as many ways to contact them as possible.. Simon is the one to write it on his chest, where it would be seen by medical professionals.. And then they get a call from a nurse at a nearby hospital, where Reader was just admitted to, unconscious and seriously injured, telling them that she's about to go into surgery and the doctors need to use anesthesia, warning them that they'll start to feel numb soon. I'm getting this whole quiet angst, broken bird vibe from this, but with an overall happy ending.. eventually.)

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (1/3)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

1/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 6k+ Rating: 18+ (This one's not a joke) Warnings:  mature audience, 18+, Mdni,  Strong Language and Sarcasm, Mentions of War, Violence, and Murder (Canon-Consistent), Unstable Personality in a Psychic Bond, Dark Humor and Coping Through Comedy, Existential Crisis in Soup Form, Doflamingo Being... Doflamingo (Ego, Violence, Manipulation)

Having Doflamingo as a soulmate is like being stuck with a narcissistic puppet master who thinks every thread in your life should be his personal chew toy. His thoughts are loud, twisted, and have more flair than a peacock on a caffeine binge. All while wearing designer sunglasses, of course. He’s been rambling in your head since the moment your souls collided, and let’s just say your childhood is now a weird, glittery horror show. “If my soulmate’s a gremlin, I’ll just tie them up. Easier than killing.”

Next

Growing Up Soulbound to Donquixote Doflamingo: A Tragedy in Several Terrifying Acts

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

You were a regular child, more or less. You liked stuffed animals. You colored inside the lines. You cried when balloons popped and believed broccoli was the worst thing a man could inflict upon you.

And then, sometime between learning the alphabet and losing your second baby tooth, it happened.

You started hearing thoughts.

Not yours. Definitely not yours. Laughter.

“Fufufufufufu-”

Low and feral, like someone had tied a candelabra to a hyena and let it loose in a cathedral. It echoed in the back of your skull with far too much glee for a school day. You remember it clearly because you were coloring a turtle. He was, apparently, winning a fight.

Soulmates, as it turns out, don’t come with manuals. Or names. Or helpful pop-ups from the universe saying, “Hey, heads up! He’s a bloodthirsty egomaniac with a God complex and a deeply questionable fashion sense.” 

 No. You just get his thoughts. Silken, smug, and utterly convinced the world was his to stage a monologue on.

“They should worship me. Why don’t they worship me? I could fix the economy if they'd just give me all the money…I miss murder.”

That voice became your unwanted childhood companion. Sharp as broken glass and twice as charming. The kind of presence that always sounded like it had just burned down a country club and would do it again if someone so much as breathed wrong.

He gave himself titles: The King. The Joker. Their Salvation.

You gave him one too: Birdman of the Opera.

At first, you thought he might be a noble. He ranted about “peasants” often enough, and once spent twenty uninterrupted minutes mentally waxing poetic about people not bowing low enough anymore.

But then came the tangents.

Unhinged ones.

“What if I dropped a city from the sky?” or “I wonder how hard it is to replace a spine.”

At one point, he got stuck on the phrase “puppets dancing on strings”.

He repeated that last one 213 times in a row. You were twelve. You kept count because it was either that or scream into your math homework.

Over the years, you pieced together a profile. Unwillingly. Accidentally. With all the enthusiasm of someone forced to cohabitate with a sentient peacock.

Whoever he is, he’s:

– Rich. – Dangerous. – Emotionally allergic to empathy. – Deeply enamored with the sound of his own voice.

You once told a friend—drunkenly, at a sleepover, while clinging to a bag of frozen peas you’d mistaken for a pillow—that your soulmate was probably a narcissistic noble with a tragic backstory and enough wealth to build a tower of solid gold just to push people off it.  She stared for a moment, then nodded solemnly and said,

“Sounds like a Celestial Dragon.”

You laughed until you cried. Then you cried until you laughed again. But no. It couldn’t be. 

Celestial Dragons sever their soulbonds young. Everyone knows that. They have ways. Methods. Entire departments are dedicated to cutting the cord before it forms.

Which means, if he’s still there, still talking, still hissing “Mine” through your dreams when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, He isn’t exactly one of them.

He’s something else. Worse, probably.

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut (Aka, Nine feet of sunglasses, feathers, trauma, and felony)

Age 5: 

You were five when the voice arrived. Not yours. Yours were soft things: juice boxes, sparkly rocks, the moral dilemma of stepping on a line of ants. Thoughts that bounced around like marbles in a shoebox. You liked colors. Songs. You wanted to be a cloud.

His were about puppet governments and the economic benefits of murder.

“Kill the old man. Take the port. Easy.”

You dropped your crayon.

It rolled across the floor and under the couch, and you didn’t go after it. You just sat there, small knees crossed, staring at your turtle drawing while some distant pirate plotted a hostile takeover inside your skull.

At first, you assumed it was your imaginary friend. That made sense. Other kids had tea parties with theirs. Yours muttered things like:

"I’ll hang that bastard by his spine."

You didn’t know what a bastard was. Or how spines worked, really. But your toy rabbit got tied up in thread and hurled off the top bunk that night. Because science.

Your teacher gave you a gold star for your drawing of a smiling man standing on a hill of bodies. 

You titled it: My Friend’s Thoughts. 

She stapled it to the bulletin board, but looked concerned.

Your parents started whispering at night.

At family dinners, you began to speak with strange conviction. Echoing ideas you didn’t understand. Once, while chewing on a dinner roll, you declared:

“Entrails could be elegant, if arranged properly.”

There was a silence. Your father blinked. Your mother passed the peas.

Later, you heard it. He’d admitted it. Casually, like one might mention a favorite sandwich.

“I’m a pirate, obviously. What did they think I was? A baker?” 

You had never met a baker who spoke in snarling baritones and discussed political assassinations before breakfast, so no. No, you hadn’t.

You coped the way children do. With crayons and misplaced confidence. Your art became dramatic. Guillotines. Fire. A disproportionate number of people falling off cliffs. Your teachers expressed concern. You smiled and drew another sword.

He got louder when angry. The rants came in waves. Names you didn’t know. Betrayals you didn’t understand. Battles you couldn’t picture.

But sometimes… You hummed. A little song, soft under your breath, as you hugged your stuffed animals to your chest and waited for sleep. You thought he didn’t hear.

Until he did.

…What the hell was that? Was that… singing? Is that—you?”

You froze. Sir Beartington fell off the pillow.

“Oi. Who are you? Why are you quiet? Wait—oh. You’re real, aren’t you? A soul tether. Talk, brat.”

You didn’t want to. You’d seen enough after-school specials to know this counted as Stranger Danger, even if it was psychic and possibly extradimensional.

Still, you said:

“That’s not kind.”

A pause. 

“Hah. You’re a kid? Figures. This bond is defective. Don’t worry. I’ll wait.”

You scowled into your blanket.

“I’m not supposed to talk to homicidal strangers.”

Another pause. Then something strange. Something new. A sound like teeth bared in delight.

“Huh. Smart parents.”

You didn't know it then, but that was the first time he sounded entertained. Not furious. Not murderous. Just… intrigued.

You didn't like that.

And you really didn't like how quiet he went afterward.

Like a tiger in tall grass.

Age 6: 

You are just trying to live your normal, legally-sanctioned, cookie-filled, frog-drawing life.

You have two cookies, one juice box, and a plush frog named Pancake. You are safe. Curled up in your blanket fort. The world is soft. Silent. Blessedly free of intrusive monologues, cape rustling, or declarations of war.

And then, like the worst kind of divine punishment:

“…Doflamingo Donquixote.”

You blink.

“What?”

He says it again. Proudly, smoothly, like a velvet rope being slowly pulled across a trapdoor.

“My name,” the voice says again, slow and smug, like a velvet rope being pulled across a trapdoor. “Doflamingo Donquixote. You should know the name of the man who’ll be—”

You sit bolt upright. Pancake the frog plummets to the floor in horror. Sir Beartington looks concerned.

“…FLAMINGO? Like. A bird???”

There’s a pause. He tries to recover.

“It’s Doflamingo, brat. It’s a powerful name. Feared. Remembered.”

You stare at the ceiling of your blanket fort with the fury of a child betrayed by nomenclature.

“It sounds like a salsa dancer with bird issues.”

Silence. He does not respond. 

You are absolutely lit with the fury of a seven-year-old who just found out her soulmate is named after a lawn ornament.

“Doflamingo Donquixote sounds like the name of a magician who performs at birthday parties and then vanishes with your wallet. It sounds like you’re the evil twin of a fancy vacuum. It sounds like you were cursed by a swamp witch who said, ‘You will be powerful, but your NAME will be STUPID.’”

He is silent. You can feel his ego crumpling like tinfoil in the microwave.

“Do people call you Doffles? Is that your pirate name? Captain Doffles?” You clutch your sides, wheezing. “Oh no. I can’t be soulmates with a man named after a piñata with a superiority complex. Is your crew called the Party City Pirates?? Do you shoot glitter out of your fingers??”

He finally snaps.

“My name strikes fear into the hearts of men.”

You cackle like a gremlin child in a bouncy castle of chaos.

“It strikes confusion into zoo workers.”

You throw yourself back into your pillow fort, laughing so hard you spill juice on Pancake. 

Across the sea, in a room made of velvet, mirrors, and questionable taste, Doflamingo Donquixote lies flat on a gilded chaise and stares at the ceiling.

“I should’ve gotten their name first,” he mutters aloud.

“Too late, Featherboa,” you whisper into the bond. “I’m naming my next pet after you. It’s gonna be a bird with a bad attitude.”

You assume he’s the ugliest flamingo ever born. 

Doflamingo Donquixote stares at the ceiling, velvet robes askew, soulbond still ringing with the sound of your laughter. And in that moment, he knows two things with absolute, bone-deep certainty: You are going to be a menace. And he is going to be very annoyed.

Age 7: 

You are seven years old, simply trying to live your normal, legally-sanctioned, cookie-filled, frog-drawing life. You want peace. You want stickers. You want to eat animal crackers in the shape of justice.

Unfortunately, somewhere in the world, your soulmate is plotting evil and thinking way too loudly.

Most kids have imaginary friends. Yours critiques your coping mechanisms and gives monologues about bloodshed between dessert courses.

“Why are you crying? You skinned your knee, not lost your empire. Get up. Pathetic.”

You had tripped. It was a perfectly reasonable fall. There was blood. There were tears. And there was him, calmly narrating the assassination of a rival arms dealer like it was a bedtime story, complete with sound effects.

You tried telling your mom that you didn’t like your “inside voice” anymore.

She gave you warm milk.

He gave you trauma.

“Milk? You’re drinking milk? Oh my god, you would.”

You stared into your cup, deeply offended on behalf of calcium. Pancake the frog looks on in dismay.

“You’re seventeen. Get a diary.”

There was a pause. Then, he laughed.

Not politely. Not even evilly. He laughed like someone who’d just ordered an airstrike and was now enjoying espresso about it.

“You’re surprisingly aggressive for a seven-year-old.”

“You built a ship that looks like a bird. I rest my case, Featherduster.”

The silence turned sharp.

You could feel the bristle. Like his sunglasses fogged over from indignation. You knew he had them because he telepathically took you shopping to brag.

“You little shit. Do you know what I can do?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Gonna ruffle my feelings, Count Cranky Feathers?”

A beat.

You sipped your milk like it was victory itself.  He mentally shrieked like a diva denied a mirror.

You survived months of his inner drama; monologues about conquest, rants about peasants, a deeply unhinged tangent about velvet and vengeance. You’d endured his commentary on politics, posture, betrayal, and which flavor of cake best paired with murder.

And now, for some reason known only to the gods of bad decisions and flamboyant pirates, he’d decided to share something personal. Probably to scare you.

His Devil Fruit.

He said it like a god unveiling the cosmos, like he was parting the veil of destiny with a single manicured hand.

“It’s called the String-String Fruit.”

You were silent.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three.

You stared blankly at the wall. Pancake the frog slipped out of your lap in slow, stunned horror.

Four. Five.

“You ate a string?”

A pause.

You could feel it—the shift in posture, the inhaled ego. He cleared his throat in your mind like he was about to give a talk titled “Why I’m Better Than God and Everyone Else.”

“It’s a Paramecia. I control threads. Fine, razor-sharp threads that can manipulate the battlefield. Puppeteer my enemies. Stitch the sky itself.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you slowly looked down at your juice box. It did not deserve to be part of this moment. And yet, here you were. Being forced to parent a man who is your senior.

You took a sip, just to fortify your soul.

“Why would you eat string?”

“It’s not an actual string—”

“Did it taste like string?”

“Yes, but—”

“Was it crunchy?”

“…Yes.”

“Then that’s worse.” 

You stared off into the middle distance like a tiny war veteran watching your hopes crumble into yarn. Pancake the frog flopped gently against your side, the only witness to your suffering.

“You saw a weird glowing spaghetti fruit and said, ‘Yeah, this seems edible.’”

“It was a Devil Fruit. They’re rare. Powerful.”

“So are batteries, but I don’t eat those.”

He audibly choked in your mind, like someone who’d just been spiritually tackled by a toddler.

“I’m not going to explain Devil Fruits to a child.”

You clutched Pancake like he was your government-assigned trauma counselor.

“No. You should explain why you ate an evil fruit and now walk around talking about world domination like a sleep-deprived sewing machine.”

You paused..

“And why are you a meanie? You’re a feral knitting kit with legs.”

You could feel his offense.

His ego flared like bad cologne. Somewhere across the sea, Doflamingo Donquixote, Warlord of the Sea, probably slammed a table in a room filled with velvet furniture and poor life choices.

And you, seven years old and full of cookies and righteous judgment, took another sip of juice.

“I could cut the world in half.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“And I could cut your fruit into slices and serve it to toddlers as a cautionary tale.”

Silence. Not the good kind. The kind that vibrates with wounded ego and the realization that your telepathic soulmate might one day weaponize glitter and pipe cleaners against you.

He didn’t respond. You could hear him breathing through his nose like a man who just lost an argument to a juice-box-wielding child.

You took a calm sip, eyes locked on your juice like it was your personal anchor to sanity.

“Don’t eat weird things. That’s how you get possessed by fruit ghosts.”

“I am the future Pirate King!”

“You need a friend. And a nap.”

He muttered something dark about fate. Something about destiny being cruel and humiliating.

You, with the grace of a smug seven-year-old who had already named your future pigeon “Flamingo the String Destroyer,” leaned sweetly into the bond; voice soft, syrupy, and sharpened like a crayon you weren’t supposed to use on the walls.

“Do you ever… regret biting the cursed yarn?”

Across the sea, in a room filled with velvet, mirrors, and unresolved trauma, Doflamingo Donquixote screeched. Not yelled. Not roared. Screeched. Like an expensive parrot being denied its emotional support chandelier.

Age 8:

By age eight, you had developed a recurring stomach ulcer and an unsettlingly robust vocabulary for describing war crimes.

Your parents thought you were just creative. You knew better. Like a drunk god yelling into your brain with a cigar in one hand and blood on the other, your soulmate was fucking loud.

He once spent forty-two minutes thinking about himself, shirtless in a fur coat, while plotting the downfall of a mid-sized kingdom.

"If I puppet this idiot just right, he’ll walk straight into the cannon fire. Oh look, another orphan. Add it to the pile."

You were in math class. You blinked at long division and considered faking your own death. You lost some friends that year. Mostly after you turned to one mid-recess and said:

“Hey guys, sorry if I space out sometimes. I’m just… tethered to a delusional, murderous sunglasses model who talks in third person and once mentally narrated his own evil laugh for six minutes straight.”

There was silence. Then Maya said she was going to play on the other side of the playground.

You started making escape plans after that.

“Trap him in a room full of mirrors?” you mused into your notebook. “No, he’d enjoy it. Too much ego. Too many angles. He’d probably flirt with his reflection and forget I was trying to kill him.”

You drew a tiny diagram labeled “Plan B: Yarn Guillotine.” It had sparkles.

Pancake the frog judged you from the corner of your backpack, one plush arm hanging out like he, too, had seen things.

Age 9: 

By age nine, you know words no child should know. Not curse words—those are for amateurs. No, you’ve leveled up.

You know words like decapitate, asset stripping, fragging, and “useful idiot.” You use “fragile masculinity” correctly in a sentence. In front of adults. On purpose.

Your teacher sends a letter home.

“Your child seems unusually… sophisticated in language. Also, they referred to Fleet Admiral Sengoku as ‘a morally-challenged imperialist meat sock.’”

You are grounded for three days. Your soulmate? He’s delighted.

“She sounds like a mushroom and teaches like a corpse. You’re dumber for listening to her.”

He mocks her voice for fifteen straight minutes. At one point, he invents a short musical about her inability to inspire a room full of staplers.

You stare at your multiplication table and wonder how much damage a paperclip can legally do.

You begin to suspect, with growing clarity, that this man—who once narrated the toppling of a minor warlord while you were eating dinosaur-shaped nuggets—might not be a good influence.

Possibly.

Probably.

Maybe.

But it’s hard to prove psychological corruption when no one else hears the smug, baritone sociopath in your brain. Your mother thinks your sarcasm phase is just “advanced.” Your dad starts hiding the newspaper.

You begin writing vocabulary words on sticky notes and hiding them in a shoebox under your bed, labeled “Evidence.”

Age 10: 

Other kids are learning spelling. You’re learning mass manipulation, psychological warfare, and the exact emotional flavor of betrayal.

You know what a coup d’état is. You can spell it. Use it in a sentence. Even diagram the political aftermath with color-coded highlighters.

Why?

Because Doflamingo doesn’t have an off switch.

He doesn’t speak to you directly that often, but you hear things. Thoughts not meant for you, leaking across the soul-thread like an open sewer pipe running through a couture crime scene. He is a nightmare in sequins.

"They begged so nicely. I said no, obviously. But points for style. I hate silence. It's like listening to your own breathing in a coffin."

You cover your ears. It doesn’t help.

“That’s not normal,” you mutter to no one. “Did he just narrate his own smirk? I think I can hear him posing.”

Your parents think you’re just dramatic. Maybe going through a “weird phase.”

You try to explain what it’s like—what it feels like—to have a chaos muppet in your head with a God complex and a boa made of the souls of his enemies. Instead, they give you a very nice school counselor. She offers breathing exercises.

Breathing doesn’t help when your soulmate is casually committing tax fraud and genocide in the same afternoon.

He once thought for six minutes straight about whether gold leaf would look good on artillery.

He once called you a “mental parasite” because you asked if his shirt had shoulder feathers or if they were those just emotional support tassels.

He once considered naming a puppet after you. You made peace with that one disturbingly fast.

You’re ten. You’ve started writing your own will. And drawing up basic escape plans.

Just in case.

Age 11:

At eleven, your tolerance for nonsense is critically low.

You've endured years of velvet-draped war crimes, unsolicited mental fashion shows, and the emotional strain of sharing psychic space with a man who owns more feathered accessories than a Sabaody drag revue.

And then, on a perfectly average Tuesday afternoon, it happens.

You’re doing your homework. Long division. Peaceful. Normal. And there it is, echoing across the bond like a cursed kazoo from hell:

“Fufufufufufufu—”

You pause.

You blink.

And then, without thinking, you say aloud—calm, pointed, utterly done:

“Why is your laugh like a vacuum cleaner being murdered?” 

And he heard you.

“Excuse me? You little parasite. You think you’re funny?”

Yes. Yes, you did. 

You snickered.

He screamed.

For six hours. Straight.

Not words. Not yelling. Just one long, internalized psychic shriek of wounded flamboyant pride.

It felt like being haunted by a glam rock banshee.

You folded your worksheet. Ate a cracker. Wrote “feathered tyrant meltdown” in your notebook and underlined it twice.

Meanwhile:

Across the sea, somewhere in a gilded death palace soaked in ego and crime, Doflamingo Donquixote swore vengeance. He paced the length of his throne room, muttering insults and murder plots under his breath like a man personally wronged by a juice box and a third-grade education.

“She thinks she’s funny. She thinks she’s smarter than me. I’m going to find her and hang her brain on the wall like art.”

Rosinante looked very alarmed, but fell face-first as he tried to mime his worry. Vergo, halfway through a cup of black coffee and regretting all his life choices, didn’t even look up.

“She’s a child, Captain. Leave her alone.”

“She’s a little shit. A little shit with jokes.”

Vergo sipped his coffee slowly.  Law, age unknown but already deeply jaded, was sitting nearby with a book and far too much sarcasm for his size.

“She should think she’s smarter than you,” Law muttered without looking up. “I like her already.”

Doflamingo whipped around like a bird of prey wearing designer boots.

“Shut up. Both of you. She insulted my laugh. She compared it to a dying vacuum.”

Trebol, lounging in the corner like a blob of emotional damage, shrugged without lifting his head. “Perhaps, young master… You could just go destroy an island until you feel better.”

Doflamingo rubbed his temples with murder in his eyes.

“Don’t tempt me.”

There was a long pause. Vergo sighed and flipped a page in his newspaper.

“She’s, like, eleven, right?” 

“She’s a war criminal.”

Age 12: 

At twelve, you decide this isn’t fate. It isn’t destiny. It’s a curse.

You are clearly cursed.

So you take action.

You attend a séance. You chant with a local priest. You eat an entire packet of salt like it’s communion for the spiritually exhausted.

You light a candle and whisper into your pillow: “Begone, chaos bird.”

Later that week, you inform him solemnly that you have attempted an exorcism.

“Salt? What is this, ghost therapy? I’m not haunting you. I’m tethered to you. There’s a difference.”

You try to cope.

You visualize him as something harmless. Something small. Something incapable of masterminding war.

“If you don’t stop picturing me as a Pomeranian, I will set an orphanage on fire and scream ‘FLUFFY’ while I do it.”

You snicker.

“You’re very fluffy when you’re angry.”

Doflamingo's aura flares like a disco ball, and a perfectly innocent vase explodes.

Your thoughts weren’t accidental. They were performed. Curated.

And they had been for seven goddamn years.

Seven years of intrusive commentary. Seven years of glitter-based emotional terrorism. Seven years of someone comparing him to a sentient curtain rod with fragile masculinity issues.

You were supposed to be a weapon. A partner. A tactical advantage in soulbond form. Instead, you were a disaster.

An untraceable, psychic comedy club that lived in his skull and refused to pay rent.

He was in the middle of a weapons deal when it started again. That subtle shift. The low, static pressure was building just behind his left eye.

Not silence. No, he would kill for silence.

This was worse.

This was the soulbond fog. Not a voice. Not a scream. Just the unmistakable, creeping feeling that his tether, the chaos goblin on the other end of this cursed string, was thinking.

And sure enough, it came.

“What if clouds are just sky potatoes?”

He froze. A vein pulsed in his temple.

Vergo, seated across from him with a sheaf of documents and the kind of blank expression that only meant something was about to explode, paused mid-sentence.

Doflamingo slowly raised one hand.

“Give me a moment,” he said, in a voice so calm it made everyone in the room slightly nauseous.

Age 13: 

You have braces, anxiety, and exactly zero interest in being soulbound to a furious, couture-wearing maniac in designer pants.

He’s in his twenties now. Which, for someone like Donquixote Doflamingo, is objectively the worst possible age to be mentally connected to a real, live person with thoughts. And preferences. And boundaries.

He has a lot of sex and no chill. 

You, unfortunately, have all the chill, and sex is a vague concept, unfortunately made more clear by the occasional mental peepshow.

Asshole.

Frankly, he deserves all the nonsense. Every recorder blast. Every glitter-fueled psychic migraine. Every frog-themed intrusive thought. Because you? You’ve endured years of his monologues. Not just the evil ones—the self-pitying ones. 

“My father gave up our divine rights. We were royalty.”

Wow. Stunning. So tragic. You also wished he had stayed in Mariejois and gotten emotionally snipped. 

Every time he says, “The world shall know my pain,” you mentally respond with:

“You know what pain is, feather boy? College debt. The housing market. You, when you get drunk, and I hear your singing.”

And when your thoughts get particularly spicy, when you start comparing him to cult leaders, reality Den Den radio villains, or emotionally repressed robots, he responds. Whiny. Wounded. Like you’d kicked him directly in the ego.

“You bully me like I owe you lunch money.”

His tone is offended.

Not outraged. Just personally injured, like a man who expected worship and got therapy notes.

“I bully you like your cult leader with abandonment issues,” you reply flatly, eyes on your math homework.

“You’re mean.”

“You monologue over poor orphans. With joy.”

“I didn’t ask to be psychically tethered to a mouthy gremlin child.”

“I didn’t ask to share headspace with a discount god complex in crime couture.”

“You don’t appreciate me.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy reading about “how to psychically block flamingo-themed pirates with wounded narcissism. Then, as a precaution, you duct tape your frog plush to your forehead like it’s divine armor.

You like soup. He takes that personally.

Like: 

"Soup again? You’re going to die bland and under-seasoned. But sure, mock my coat while stirring boiled sadness. 

Sometimes it’s stupid shit:

"You know, cariño, it’s fascinating. You say you hate me, yet your brain thinks about me more than oxygen. That’s not loathing. That’s courtship."

And sometimes it’s deeply unfair:

"You call me ‘birdbrain,’ but I’m not the one who mistook powdered sugar for snow and tried to catch it with their mouth. Who’s the national security threat now?"

You’ve figured it out by now: If you keep your head boring—like mind-numbingly boring—he loses interest. You’re smart. You adapt. You become…become an accidental psychic saboteur, a mental landmine of pure, relentless, soul-bound nonsense. You build an internal fortress not out of steel or fire.

No, no. You build it out of garbage thoughts. Of deliberate, brain-rotting trivia. It is one of the most aggressively mundane inner monologues in recorded human history.

“Capybaras can’t jump.”

“Tupperware is technically a pyramid scheme.”

“The inventor of chips is buried in a chip can.”

“Soup.”

Just constant, slow-motion, inner monologue soup. Potato leek. Miso. Lentil. You compose emotional haikus about broth.

“Bean soup is humble. Warm in the belly, not loud. Unlike some people.”

And Donquixote Doflamingo? The world’s most volatile, fashionably dressed war criminal with abandonment issues? He goes absolutely bananas over it.

“You think you’re clever?”

“I’ve been mentally filibustering your evil plans with daydreams about laundry detergent and legal reform for years,” you reply, serenely. “At this point, I am your Shadow Cabinet. So—yes.”

You are, in effect, giving this man psychic tinnitus in the form of chicken stock. And it is driving him insane.

He’s currently:

Plotting the takedown of Dressrosa,

Manipulating underworld crime syndicates,

Babysitting a vengeance-fueled Law who keeps pulling knives,

And silently failing to connect with a brother who communicates exclusively in soul-crushing stares.

He is—to put it mildly—under pressure.

And somewhere—deep in the velvet-curtained, trauma-scented center of his murderous little heart he knows that the voice currently wondering whether soup can be carbonated is his greatest threat.

Not the Marines. Not the Yonko. Not Cipher Pol.

You.

And in the middle of a violent strategy meeting with Vergo and Trebol—charts spread, cities marked, lives priced in blood—he zones out.

Because suddenly, again:

“I wonder if broccoli works in soup. Probably, but only if you blend it.”

The table shakes.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!” he roars aloud.

Vergo blinks. Trebol wheezes quietly in the corner.

“…Sir?”

Doflamingo inhales through his nose. He clenches a fist full of velvet. Smiles too widely.

“Nothing. Continue. Also, kill that merchant.”

You don’t have a tragic past. You don’t have powers. You don’t even really know who he is. You’re just out there in the world, somewhere, living a bland life and refusing to acknowledge him, which is new, and which is offensive. Because everyone wants Doflamingo, or fears him, or dies for him.

And here you are, tempting fate.

“Can rice noodles go in miso, or is that cultural betrayal?”

He twitches.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?”

You’re thinking about whether soup counts as a meal or a drink. You’re fighting off a cold with garlic, lemon, and passive aggression. You are wrapped in a blanket, sipping broth like it’s a tactical maneuver.

And somewhere, across the Grand Line, Donquixote Doflamingo is staring into space like a man on the verge of violence.

“Your taste in food is as questionable as your survival instincts. Do you think they’ll put it on your gravestone? Here lies the girl who thought ‘soupy’ was a personality trait.”

You blink. Offended on every level. Oh my god, he is such a bitch.

Far, far away, he laughs. Low. Amused. Unhinged in the way only a soulbonded warlord with a god complex and emotional glitter damage can be.

And you—mildly congested, wrapped in a blanket, sipping broth and contemplating fate—you sit back and sigh. You are sick and still cosmically tethered to something that sounds like a sparkly bird-flavored drink they stopped serving in Alabasta because it caused hallucinations.

Age 14: 

You’d been mid-rant. A particularly good one, too.

You were mentally listing, in alphabetical order, all the reasons Donquixote Doflamingo should never be trusted with state secrets, firearms, or upholstery.

“A—Arson enthusiast. B—Birdbrained. C—Couture crimes. D—Dictator energy. E—Ego so large it requires structural support—”

That’s when the bond surged.

Not the usual buzz of static. Not his smug psychic lounge act. 

But something different. 

Something hot. 

Sharp. 

And wrong.

It hit like an elbow to the ribs. Fast, jarring, close.

Your words dropped off. Your breath stuttered. You sat up, blinking hard, hands curling in your lap like you could claw your way back into reality.

But you weren’t in your room anymore. Not exactly. You weren’t anywhere, really. Not physically..

The world around you was white and wind-bitten, blurring at the edges with snow. Cold. Too cold.

And in front of you, a man stood. Shoulders hunched. Bleeding. Shaking. Pointing a gun. At Doflamingo.

The snow beneath him was red. His lip was split. One eye was nearly swollen shut. His coat hung from one shoulder, torn and smoking, like something that had once been elegant and had since been through hell.

Your first thought wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even confusion.

Who would dare? Who would stand like that, half-broken, half-frozen, and still point a weapon at him?

Corazón. 

Rosinante Doflamingo.

The mute brother.

You never heard his voice in your head. Never saw the world through his eyes. But still, you knew him.

Because Doflamingo knew him. 

And Doflamingo never shut up. 

Even when he didn’t mean to share it, you saw him; that tall, awkward man with the cigarette always tucked between two fingers and a coat two sizes too big, with laughter like broken glass and kindness that crept into places it wasn’t welcome.

Corazón lived in the silent corners of Doflamingo’s mind. The places he avoided. Where grief crusted like old blood around memories of shared bread and bunk-bed whispers. Where a tall, clumsy man with a martyr’s smile had once offered his brother hope and never asked anything in return.

You used to call him “Side Character Number One.” The quiet one. The gentler man in the chaos. The wayward brother with the cigarette always half-lit, thoughts that barely bled through the bond. For some reason, his voice was never in any memory.

But he didn’t need to.

You could see how much he worried. How much he watched Doflamingo spiral. How often he thought about that boy.. You mocked him once, years ago. Called him ‘the chain-smoking nursemaid with a martyr complex’. 

Doflamingo had actually laughed aloud, much to his crew’s confusion. Not a cruel laugh. A real one. A rare one. You held onto that sound longer than you meant to.

No, you’ve never met Rosinante.

But you knew him.

Knew the way Doflamingo’s rage thinned when he entered a room. The flicker of guilt he refused to name. The absence that filled the Doflamingo whenever Corazon left to find medicine, food, and safety. 

The one person your soulmate actually cared about.

He was your quiet background character in the ridiculous mental telenovela you and Doflamingo were constantly acting out; mental daggers, petty color wars, soup rants, and psychic ceasefires.

And now he was pointing a gun at Doflamingo.

Brother. Traitor. Soft. Still hoping.

Not your thoughts.

The snow muted everything. Sound, breath, mercy. It swallowed the world in white, as if trying to make this moment make sense, when nothing about it did.

Your chest was tight. Ribs braced as if struck. Fingers curled unconsciously into the sleeves of your coat, heart stuttering beneath layers that could not keep out the cold pressing in through the bond.

You weren’t there.

Not really.

But you could feel the frost biting at his skin. The dull throb of bruises on borrowed lungs. The sting of betrayal settles like ash behind the teeth. You stood just behind Doflamingo’s eyes, trapped in the hollow space where thoughts become action and action becomes irreversible.

Rosinante did not beg. He did not cry.

He only looked up, eyes shadowed beneath the fall of a too-large coat, cigarette long forgotten in the snow. His shoulders were hunched. And still, there was no fear in him.

Only sorrow.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Doflamingo raised the gun.

You moved without thinking, a whisper inside him, a breathless panic in the marrow of your thoughts.

“No. Don’t. Don’t do this—”

But he didn’t pause. He didn’t flinch.

There was no speech. No cruel flourish of ego. Just the press of a finger. The inevitability of gravity.

The gunshot cracked through the bond.

Sharp and final.

No ceremony. No flourish. No desperate villainy to cushion the horror.

Just collapse.

Like a marionette with strings severed, his body struck the snow with a wet, unholy finality. There was no poetry to it. No last gasp. No divine moment. Just the thud of something beloved reduced to ruin. Red spilled beneath him in widening arcs, staining the white as if the earth itself had been caught off guard. As if it, too, couldn’t quite believe what had happened.

The coat he wore bunched beneath him; too big, too black, too soft for a world like this. Blood darkened the whiteness around him, soaking through like spilled ink on a blank page.

And Doflamingo just stood there. Silent.

No smirk. No speech. No vicious gloating to fill the void.

Only stillness.

And the soulmate bond seized.

Collapsed inward, low and quiet, like a lung emptied of air. Like a cathedral after the choir stops. You hadn’t even realized how much of your life had been shaped by his background noise; by the thrum of ambition, of anger, of biting arrogance and relentless presence always simmering somewhere in your head.

But now?

Now it was still. Not just gone.

Just absent.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because Rosinante wasn’t background noise for Doflamingo, he had been everything to him. The boy in the bunk bed. The man in the corner of the room. The brother who still haunted every corridor of Doflamingo’s mind like a light too painful to look at. He had been the softness buried in cruelty. The coat wrapped around something feral. The last goddamn tether to grace.

And now he was gone.

There was no joke for this. No roast. No commentary.

Just silence.

Grieving.

And for once, you didn’t say a thing either.

No gloating. No mocking satisfaction. Just a long, raw quiet.

You felt his thoughts coil inward, tight and wrong. Cold. Wet. Heavy. Like chains sinking in water. 

Donquixote Doflamingo, objectively speaking, is the worst person you’ve ever met. Egotistical. Violent. A man who speaks in threats and dresses in war crimes.

And this?

This was his fault.

He didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to pull the trigger. But knowing that—rationalizing it, dissecting it—didn’t stop your sympathy.

You still feel bad for him.

The grief wasn’t yours. But it was in you now. The way his memory clung to Corazón like smoke in silk. The way the bond had gone hollow around the edges, not broken but scorched.

Doflamingo’s voice comes low. 

It’s rough, like a thread pulled too tight, frayed and cold at the edges.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for me.”

It doesn’t stab.

It sinks.

Soft, sharp, and slow. Like poison in the bloodstream. Like something said through gritted teeth to stop from breaking, words spoken by someone who knows what he did, knows what he lost, knows how this will echo in the dark of his skull long after the blood fades from the snow. 

Wounded. Like grief opened his mouth, and something too human slipped through.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for me,” he repeats, voice more and more uneven. “You don’t get to weep for my brother, who I shot. You hate me, remember?”

You do. 

You do.

You hate his ego. His violence. The way he smiles like a god and bleeds like a man. You hate how he invaded your life, your head. 

But something’s changed.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not compassion. It’s not some redemptive hope that he’ll be better now.

It’s just... quiet.

The grief sits in your chest like frost behind ribs. It aches. Not for him, maybe. But for the boy he used to be. The one who once shared bread. The one who had a brother.

And Doflamingo, somewhere behind the thorns and silence, feels it. He doesn’t lash out again. He just... withdraws. Like an animal nursing a wound too deep to show. 

And the bond, for the first time since you were a child, feels lonely.

.

.

.

After Corazon dies, there are no more flashes of his sad childhood.

No stray memories drifting in like smoke. No laughter caught in the corners of his thoughts, no soft colors, no cigarettes and coat sleeves, and flickers of humanity slipping past his walls.

Just silence. Heavy and hollow.

Doflamingo hadn’t just lost someone he cared about. He’d lost the best part of him. The last flicker of light still flickering in that rotted, ruined cathedral he called a soul.

And the worst part? He knew it.

You felt the knowledge ooze through the bond like a fever, slow and inescapable. He had done it. He had killed the only man who could’ve softened him.

And now? It was just you and Donquixote Doflamingo. 

Alone in a godless bond. No more buffer. No more brakes.

His voice came through the silence like a knife wrapped in silk. Poisonous, but somehow deflated. Ragged, in a way he didn’t know how to hide.

“So,” he says, poisonous but somehow small beneath it all, “Are you going to run from me too?”

The silence stretched.

Because your first thought—your immediate, unfiltered brain reaction—was:

“I can’t even run a mile without wheezing. You think I’m emotionally or physically equipped for fleeing a war criminal?”

It slipped through the bond before you could catch it.

A pause.

A stunned, dead silence.

Then a sound. Low. Choked. Was that—?

“Did you just—” he started, voice caught between disbelief and something that might’ve been laughter. “I am baring my soul, and you respond with asthma jokes?”

You swallowed, wiping your nose on your sleeve. Your voice came out hoarse.

“You started it. With the whole ‘I shot my brother, don’t pity me’ death soliloquy.”

“It wasn’t a soliloquy,” he snapped, half-heartedly.“It had staging.”

He didn’t respond. But the bond shifted. The grief was still there. Raw. Bleeding.

But something in him exhaled.

-X- End Part One -X-

[bunnyluvx]

gaming w/ lads lis! ♡

featuring: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb x gn!reader.

warnings: minors and ageless blogs dni regardless of content.

requested by @napforalifetime | dc: @cafekitsune | wc: 1.6k | ao3

tags: fluff | established relationship | physical affection | luke and kieran mention | doxxing

a/n: I HAVE FINALLY WRITTEN CALEB AFTER ALMOST 3 MONTHS OF POSTING LADS CONTENT. i'm excited to write more for him in the future, i can tell he's gonna be really fun. also for the most part, my ideas for these scenarios surround shooter games like valorant, overwatch, marvel rivals etc, so that's what i'm going to be basing your experiences with all of the lis off of.

date started: 4:15PM, june 25th, 2025.

date finished: 5:41PM, june 28th, 2025.

xavier ♡

i think that the only way that xavier would regularly game is if he's asked to play. i don't see him turning down co-workers or friends whenever they ask him to game, and he certainly won't say no if you ask.

i imagine that he has a switch where he has some cozy games or some story-based games that he's really into. i can also see him having a console or a pc setup for when his friends/co-workers want to play, but other than that, i don't think he games much.

xavier is relatively quiet to my understanding, so i think that would continue to apply when you play video games. he pings enemies, and seemingly teleports to your side just how he does irl when you start screaming for help, but his focus is mainly on everyone around him. he catches on pretty quickly, and does really well after getting used to the controls and learning about the characters.

he also LOCKS IN when you play. sometimes, you can hear his controller's clicking sounds from just how hard he gets into it. he doesn't even notice how focused he becomes, so when you bring it up, he's surprised by himself.

xavier is a dps main. i will not explain myself

who carries depends, i think. if you guys play consistently, i think you take turns carrying. if not, you take the lead.

xavier doesn't often look at stats, but when he does and sees that you're doing well, he always makes a point to praise you. you felt accomplished before, but your boyfriend's approval seals it in for you.

xavier doesn't really look at chat either, but he is so quick to come to your defense if he sees that someone is being mean to you. their account is reported and banned not long after.

i don't see xavier doing friendly fire. mainly, i think he'd just kind of..let you do whatever. push or blast him off of the map, shoot and kill him, etc. if there's an option, and you want to have a little fight, he'll play along. he always wins and you threaten to ban him from cuddle time /j.

once he starts collecting emotes, he uses the sitting ones OFTEN between gameplay. before a match starts or between queue, you find him sitting somewhere.

LOVES playing hide and seek in custom games. mainly when you're the seeker because your taunts and giggling warm his heart.

CAN xavier get competitive? yes. DOES he? no. he doesn't care enough. he just wants to have fun and spend time with you, so winning or losing doesn't matter to him.

knows some gamer lingo, so he mostly understands you when you use it. if something is unfamiliar to him, he asks then learns something new!

zayne ♡

similar to xavier, zayne doesn't game unless you ask him to. he might have played some when he was younger out of social obligation, but not much past that. i think that he prefers card or board games.

i think that zayne is pretty decent when it comes to shooter games. he isn't the best on the team, but he's not the worst either.

the idea of you solving puzzles together in a horror/mystery game is a really interesting thought to me. that's something i think he'd be really into. he also likes games where you have to work together towards a common goal. this cutie patootie LOVES games that exercise the brain.

idk why this came to my head but he likes crossword puzzles too. if he can't think of a word, he likes to ask for your help. he loves to do them with you, too.

BACK TO VIDEO GAME TALK, zayne is a support main. he likes to feel like he's contributing and he feels really useful when he heals people :)

gets SO soft when someone thanks him for healing them. it doesn't really show but the appreciation makes him happy

stops healing teammates when they're mean to you. won't revive them or nothin. reports any bullies or game sabotage after the match is over

i think that zayne would be down for friendly fire every once in awhile. you take turns chasing each other around, and zayne is really quick so you lose him kind of easily. your giggling while you run lights up his night.

you carry for the most part. when zayne really focuses, your stats match up, but he doesn't really play enough to perform well consistently.

zayne will glance towards chat in case, and rarely ever looks at stats. i think that he likes to watch the crazy stuff people will say sometimes

isn't familiar with gamer lingo. you have to teach him almost all of it, and he appreciates the effort.

also uses sit emotes often when you're not queued up. he likes when you send him pictures of you sitting together, he thinks it's really cute

always watches out for you when you play together. pockets you sometimes when there isn't much else for him to do

i think that he can be a little competitive. he doesn't care enough to get really upset by it, but he does get peeved

gets frustrated when people spawn-camp. annoyed when people t-bag.

rafayel ♡

i don't see rafayel liking shooter games all that much. i think that he would enjoy games like minecraft more, where his creative liberty can run wild.

minecraft is now rafayel's favorite video game because i said so

makes the most gorgeous houses and structures

likes the sims too

really good with room decorating

you make yourselves as sims and have a family together

he likes games that give him various customization. he likes making things pretty

if you ask him to play a shooter game with you, he'll say yes. any time with you is time well-spent

when you do play shooter games, rafayel mains support. he gets easily annoyed when playing dps and he has little to no interest in playing tank

doesn't know gamer lingo. you use it for the first time, and he makes a joke about it. you explain to him what it meant and do so from that point forward. he incorporates it into his own language when you play now and you feel so proud watching him grow as a silly little gamer

so down for friendly fire. likes smacking you for fun. you have 1v1s and keep track of your wins. sometimes you 1v1 in games to settle arguments or disagreements and you both think it's hilarious

rafayel gets really competitive. when someone targets you or him, his mission from that point forward is to kill that person and WIN.

very defensive of you. hears someone talking badly about you in game vc and GOES OFF.

gets easily side-tracked so you have to remind him of your objective sometimes

sylus ♡

i think that he would game on his own. very rarely does he, but he enjoys his time when it happens. it gives him something to do with his time and attention. open to playing with you almost any time

sylus likes games with lots of lore. he appreciates how much effort goes into video games. he also likes decision-based games because every action that one has having consequences is something that intrigues him

puzzle games too. give this man a door he can't open and he is on the hunt for the key

tank main. he's very strategic in the ways he makes space for his team, and it satisfies him

i think that he's flexible with what roles he plays though. he does whatever is most convenient for himself and his team to try to get to a win

very down for friendly fire. likes to tease you and other people. he thinks it's funny when people get mad at him for shooting them

knows some gamer lingo because of luke and kieran, but rarely uses it. watching you use it makes him smile because he knows that means you're enjoying yourself. he also kinda pokes fun at you because some lingo is really silly

sylus is a pretty good player. he doesn't play enough to be good consistently but when he gets back into the groove after playing for awhile, you don't often lose

sylus ABSOLUTELY gets competitive. he doesn't really verbalize it, but he wants to win. i can 100% hear him saying, "is that all you can do?" and "that was too easy."

if people are mean to you because you're not good at the game, he makes sure that they can't play on their device of choice anymore. but you don't know that

caleb ♡

HE'S A GAMER BOY. THEY SAID SEE U LATER BOY /lyr

in all seriousness, caleb games often when he's not busy. you've been playing together since you were young and you both LOVE ITTT

likes horror games. phasmophobia came to mind, i think he'd like it

dps/tank main. likes killing things

he uses gamer lingo regularly when you play together and sometimes even teaches you some!

open to friendly fire. he will kill u over and over and over and over again just to annoy u

pretty good at games!!! when he does well at the end of a match he brags about just how awesome he is. you think he's awesome too but you tell him he sucks for the funnys

gets very competitive. dives head first into matches and you have to swim through what feels like seas of enemies just to find him

teaches u how to play new characters. very good teacher and always gives u the best advice to improve

will doxx someone if they're mean to you /hj

@BUNNYLUVX ,, all rights reserved. do not copy/plagiarize any of my works or submit it into ai. any and all support is appreciated! <3

[birchtheknight]

Thnk u for the tag bestie :3

Currently reading: The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde, planning to start The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

Last Song: Glamorous Indie Rock & Roll by The Killers (I think)

Last Film: Little Shop of Horrors

Last Series: HTTYD Race to the Edge (I'M OBSESSED WITH IT)

Sweet, Savory, or Salty: DEFINITLY sweet

Coffee or Tea: Coffee, especially lattes, I like experimenting with them

Working on: Animatics (I'm so close to done with one), and general drawing for Birch & Aspen/School, also cross-stitching a neon sea slug

Just tagging nine moots but pls any moot feel free to join

@sillygoobr64 @aieroartstudios @rosedragon28 @scrapplescribbles @nexlasart @ghostofcurug @cryptid-creepler @kibbychan @emolasses

TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE

tried to reblog the original post but it was gone so here we are i guess. thanks for tagging me leigh!!!!! @poemeater <3 i love you to pluto and back come kiss me now

currently reading: nothing actually. walk of shame

last song: man in the mirror — michael jackson

last film: captain america brave new world

last series: new girl season 3, mha season 2 (rewatch), wbk s2

sweet/savory/salty?: savory + salty!!! but i would give up both kidneys for some cinnamon sugar pretzels rn

tea or coffee: tea always

working on: packing to move states in july, weeding through some rough friendships that no longer serve me, picking up guitar again, and. well. kinktober ‘25

no pressure tags 🤍 @carminechrollo @admiringlove @madaqueue @cheralith @bouqette @mochiqa @mosskissed @storiesoflilies @toadba @tokeposts @hiraethwrote sorry if you’ve been tagged i tried to choose people i haven’t tagged in awhile/at all hehe

[satoruined]

FIVE TIMES HE ALMOST TOLD YOU HE LIKED YOU, AND THE ONE TIME HE DID — 伏黑惠

PAIRING fushiguro megumi x gn!reader WORD COUNT 759 NOTE english is not my first language

ㄧ、

megumi was halfway through his fifth lap when the drizzle started—thin, needling rain, more of a nuisance than a threat. he ran through it anyway. fuck it. shoes slapping wet against the track, shrapnel-sharp air cutting his lungs. it wasn’t until the heavens opened in earnest that he slowed, dropped to a crouch, fingers tugging at a loosened shoelace. the rain stopped abruptly. just above him, a tiny radius of dry air. he looked up. you were standing behind him, arm extended, umbrella tilted precisely overhead. water slid in rivulets down the nylon, refracting light in seven colours. he blinked the rain from his lashes. thought about telling you—everything, maybe. instead, he said, “thanks.” voice a little hoarse. and then he ran. one more lap, full speed. lungs burning, heart punching wild against his ribcage, like it was trying to reach you first.

二、

human earthworm 4 was, as expected, abysmal—but itadori wanted to watch it, and you voted yes. megumi felt nobara’s stare burn into his skull when he sided with you anyway. simp, her eyes seemed to accuse. you shrieked at the dumbest scenes, crushed his hand like your life depended on it. one might assume a jujutsu sorcerer could stomach gore, but there you were, curled half into him over a jump scare. he kept his eyes locked on the screen, his face burning. during the end credits, you finally let go, a bit sheepishly.“sorry,” you murmured. “i really don’t do well with horror.” megumi almost responded with, then you should always sit next to me. “it’s fine.”

三、

you caught him off balance—a sharp pivot, then impact. megumi hit the mat hard. flat on his back, breath knocked clean from his lungs. he blinked up at the ceiling, dizzy. maybe from the fall. maybe from your smirk. you leaned over him, eyes gleaming, hand extended in smug triumph. he took it without thinking. nearly said it then, with your fingers wrapped warm around his. instead: “nice job, but you hesitated on the first swing.” your other hand flicked his forehead, quick and sharp. “still got you,” you said, laughing.

四、

you’d stepped away to use the restroom. yuji and nobara were still arguing in line, squabbling over pastry choices when the barista asked the order—only to realise no one knew what you usually ordered. except megumi. he stepped forward and gave the cashier your drink down to the ice level and sweetener ratio. when you returned and spotted the cup waiting with your name scrawled across the side, you took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. “how’d you know?” because. because. “you always get that,” he said—flatly. like it wasn’t a big deal. like he hadn’t been paying attention this whole time.

五、

he found you beneath the wreckage—half-buried under a slab of concrete, body twisted at an unnatural angle, blood soaking through the earth in slow, arterial warmth. your cursed energy spluttered around you in faltering pulses, like a candle suffocating in wind. your eyes met his—glassy and disoriented, clouding at the edges. your throat tore with the force of your scream: “go.” he didn’t. couldn’t. he dropped to his knees, fingers forming seals so tightly his knuckles blanched. shadows surged beneath his feet, animal shapes breaking loose from the concrete like they’d been waiting—waiting to annihilate whatever dared touched you. in the cacophony of collapsing debris and distant screaming, of his own heart pounding at a ruinous tempo—only one thought repeated, brutal in its clarity: (i’ve waited too long, don’t die. please don’t die.)

加一

the platform was nearly vacant. sunset spilled across the concrete in diluted streaks of lavender and rose, the sky bruised and glowing. the sun hung low on the horizon like an gigantic yolk. beside you, megumi stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders drawn, saying nothing. you clutched your luggage loosely by the handle, ticket already scanned and folded into your coat sleeve. neither of you had said much—not for lack of things to say, but for fear of saying the wrong ones. behind you, the train slid into the platform with a metallic hiss, brakes shrieking against the rails. the doors eased open with a mechanical sigh. you took a step forward, then paused—winter break loomed ahead, and with the semester finished, you wouldn’t be seeing each other for a while. the thought made you quite sad. knowing megumi wasn’t one for hugs, you’d already decided you’d settle for demanding a text now and then. you turned to say as much—only for him to speak first: “i like you.”

© satoruined. all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content

[kukukurona]

#WELOVELOSERS — isagi yoichi.

all art by yuexere.

a/n; feel free to send me requests!

gamer!isagi who, despite being very intelligent when it comes to playing basically any kind of game, was actually quite stupid when it came to school. although his computer science (and sometimes math) grades were high, the other subjects basically ruin his report card.

gamer!isagi who ended up meeting you through his chemistry class, which happened to be one of his worst subjects. you were pretty good at the subject but lately your test grades have been low, so you asked the teacher if there was anyone you could tutor for some extra credit.

gamer!isagi who groaned when his teacher told him to stay after class, already knowing that he was going to be talked to about his grades. annoyed by the thought, as his games were waiting for him at home and he really wanted to play some valorant or something.

gamer!isagi who, when the bell rang and everyone left — leaving just three people in the room, eyes widened and jaw slightly dropped when he saw you. sure, you had been in his class for like a good half year by now, but he was never one to pay attention to girls.

gamer!isagi who couldn’t keep his eyes off of you when the chemistry teacher was explaining that you were to be his new tutor, trying to hopefully get his grades up.

gamer!isagi who forgot all about the games when you started to talk, you leading the conversation and asking which days he was free afterschool and if he needed help in break times or not. your voice was really pretty.

gamer!isagi who’s grades in chemistry went up, so much so infact that he started not needing a chemistry tutor anymore. that can’t be good, he wanted to be with you more.

gamer!isagi who asked you, during one of the tutor sessions for the upcoming tests, if you were good at any other subjects. to absolutely no one’s surprise, you were. score!

gamer!isagi who wasted no time in asking you to help him with other subjects, with you having no opposition to it because you quite liked helping and also being with him.

gamer!isagi who started getting closer to you through the tutoring, you both became good friends. the time you spent together extended to more than just study sessions.

gamer!isagi who, you found out, was really fond of playing games. as if it wasn’t obvious though. he liked any type of game, and was willing to try basically everything.

gamer!isagi who you were able to discuss your favorite games with, as he probably played it too. there’s no problem if he hadn’t yet, as he immediately would pull allnighters finishing your favorite games just so he could talk to you about something.

gamer!isagi who became your bestfriend — the tutoring sessions that brought you two together becoming redundant, as his grades genuinely improved because of you.

gamer!isagi who you played games with a lot, going to his house often to spend time with him. his parents didn’t mind either, they were such kind people.

gamer!isagi who plays horror games with you, both of you screaming at the jumpscares and laughing your asses off every two seconds.

gamer!isagi who became your minecraft and roblox buddy, also just your buddy for everything to be honest.

gamer!isagi who became part of your daily routine and vice versa.

gamer!isagi who genuinely was so inlove with you since the first day you met, always trying to be the best version of himself for you.

gamer!isagi who helped you in your lows and always was there for you, never minding if his shirt was soaked in tears whenever you let the walls crush down and you finally let everything out.

gamer!isagi who you also fell inlove with, despite your feelings taking much longer to develop.

gamer!isagi who tried his best to stay just friends with you, thinking you would never like him back.

gamer!isagi who was also so dang obvious to the point where he couldn’t even hide his feelings for you anymore, despite his best efforts.

gamer!isagi who was too scared to confess, but with the help of his friends’ encouragement (and also you purposely giving him very large hints that you did like him back) he finally thought out a plan to confess.

gamer!isagi who asked you to be his girlfriend through flowers, your favorite chocolate, and a beautiful handmade minecraft pop up card, which he totally did not spend hours on and repeat dozens of times to get it perfectly right for you.

PROOF-READER: @bigbootyamongusimposter

a/n ; huhu this was lowkey rushed but its okay i think, i hope this didn’t suck that much :x also gradient text is such a hassle to do. weote this instead of updating my series, whoopsies! sorry guys, nerdsagi has just been stuck in my head all day.

thank you for reading !! ᢉ𐭩 please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed, it would really motivate me hehe! do not copy, translate, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms. this is my only account.

[fangirlingpuggle]

Binggeyuan AU/Fic prompt where Bingge finds Universe where SY didn't die, PIDW ended and now a Visual Novel has come out expanding on one of airplanes vaguely mentioned campaigns Binghe did.

It's just an excuse for a harem VN because airplane still needs money to eat.

Bingge isn't able to fully travel into world yet... so he improvises.

SY buys it knowing it;'s going to be from Binghe's POV and they're may be some lore amid the harem scenes...also he wants more of Luo Binghe he's the best character and the ending was so bad....

But then his game installs weird and... he's not playing form Luo Binghe's pov he thinks he's a new wife? huh... that's not what he excepted... but there's open writing instead of set responses so he can ask Binghe things? and this is cool and it's more Binghe so yes win!

Airplane contacts him days later like 'Um bro you have over 100 hours in the game... I'm pretty sure it only takes like 5 hours to beat.... you really like the harem scenes huh?' and SY is like 'What? no i've not had any of them i've just been talking to Binghe and Airplane is confused and suddenly worried when his copy of game starts glitching.

Airplane becomes stuck in horror game version with Bingge wanting to just talk to the author/god of his fate while Shen Yuan is being thoroughly romanced by him and 'I mean i'm playing one of his wives of course i'd be in love with him'

[kupa-konstruct]

As the wind hits my face, the steadying gallop of the horse shifting my tied body unceremoniously as I try to speak to my unfortunate "rescuers". "I keep trying to tell you," my voice muffled against the wind, "I live there willingly! What part of that do you not understand???"

I hear the second horseback rider chuckle under her breath as she pulls in closer to me, looking me over again with suspension. "Are you sure this one isn't possessed or something?" She yells to the rider in front of me.

"For the last time, yes I'm sure." He responds with a large sigh, taking his time to glance back to make sure I'm still tied down properly before. "I already checked him over with my spells, he's just oddly attached to that damn thing, I guess."

Hearing these two shoddy adventures call my spouse a "thing" starts to blood my blood before I remember my goal. I yell again, trying my best to sound sincere, "Please, I'm being serious. I live there with them as my partner, PARTNER!"

The wind rushes past me as they both seem to ignore me, making the bad feeling in my gut becomes progressive worse so I try to yell again.

"Please! Please return me to my hone. I need to go back, I can't have him worry." the desperation in my voice getting worse as they both begin to chuckle to themselves. The other adventurer laughs to herself again, causing the main one to chuckle slightly as well while the other speaks again.

"Ha! Get a load of this shit. Please? You're actually begging to go back to that filthy place? Man, that thing really got you good too. Probably had a glamour on a everything."

As the adventures laugh at his pleas and as they do, the bad feeling reaches its zenith as rage replaces the worry he had felt before as there so called "rescuers" mock his home AND his lover.

As he tries to think of a way to escape, he feels the familiar tug of the bond they share. A bond of love turned into worry and then, into rage. No words spoken as his spouse immediately locks on to his location and starts to catch up very quickly.

Storm clouds roll over the countryside quicky as he approaches, the adventures giving each other bewildered stares as they urge the horses to go faster, to no avail.

As the clouds give chase with alarming speed, a winged figure slowly starts to appear in the dust and rain, a figure I'm all too familiar with.

With a wide smile, I inhale a large breath before I loudly greet my spouse, to the shock and horror of my captors. "MALKIZID!!!! HEY HONEY, I'M OVER HERE!!!"

You and your non-human spouse live peacefully and happily in a remote village. While your spouse is running errands, passing adventurers “rescue” you as they mistake you for a hostage. You must explain the situation before your spouse comes home and finds you missing...

[five-rivers]

This is the poll to determine the second main plot point for my experimental audience participation fic (search 'experimental fic' on my blog for more information). This poll is being held because the runners-up options were too close to call. While runners-up on this poll will not be included in the fic from the beginning as a main plot point, I will write a mini fic for each as a thank you for participating.

Submitted propaganda and prompt credits are under the cut below the poll.

Send me an ask if you have any questions!

Prompt credits: @axion-labs, @trinoxtrinox, @icos-x, @jackdaw-sprite

Propaganda for the Pitch Pearl prompt (via @axion-labs):

- Rivers said in the initial post that started all this that they wanted practice writing ships, so you’ll be doing them a favor (I can’t fathom why Rivers of all people claims to need practice, just look at the 400 fics they’ve written, but whatever) - The first place plot is Danny concerningly oversharing, which plays well into a toxic relationship (or a perceived toxic because ghost shenanigans? Lots of directions to go with it) - Over-possessive relationships are so much fun with ghosts involved! A ghosts’ obsession, the core of their being, becoming another person? - Please?

Propaganda for the Ancient Adoption prompt (via @trinoxtrinox):

Rivers is the ruler and monarch for soft body horror, they have already made many stories where Danny has changed slowly and those stories are always a beauty. Now imagine how far it would go when Danny is under the influence of MANY DIFFERENT GHOSTS, Danny truly is made of playdough and he's being molded by so many hands that anything is possible.

Propaganda for Amity Lair prompt (via @bonuscatart):

I've seen fics where Amity is Danny's haunt, but I don't think I've read one where it's his lair. It would be cool to see how Amity is affected by something usually in the Ghost Zone

Propaganda for Field Trip Gone Wrong prompt (via @jackdaw-sprite):

- It plays very well with the first place winner, which is Danny saying too many alarming things to the wrong person. Who is that person? Any one of his classmates, or Mr. Lancer. Or all of them! Imagine the chaos! - It's got a built in explanation for why Danny is even saying these things! He's trapped and can't redirect attention away from himself! It's got drama! it's got confrontation! - We don't torment Danny socially nearly enough - Imagine being a teenager who has managed to fuck up badly enough at keeping your mouth shut that at least one of your classmates and possibly your entire class is trying to get answers out of you. Despite being in a Situation. Mortifying! - It's even worse when you've got ghost powers you are theoretically very practiced at hiding. That you're worried might result in dissection if they come out - Only maybe half of Danny's classmates are normal about Phantom. imagine how Dash, Paulina, Valerie, and maybe even Wes would react in this situation. imagine all of them effectively locked in a bottle with Danny at the same time as he tries and fails to keep his secret. - We don't torment Danny socially nearly enough. I already said that but I think now you understand exactly what kind of torment this is, and how fun it would be to watch him squirm. - If you vote for this, we could get Rivers to do this to Danny. Imagine.

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

June 30th

~*~

1. Hi! I’m looking for a fic I read a long time ago. I don’t remember a lot, but WWX was badly injured by Madam Yu, and he ends up in the Cloud Recesses. (I think maybe he was arranged to be married to LWJ, but I might be getting mixed up with another story.) The bit I remember is the Wens attack but can’t get through the wards that WWX updated. There is fighting outside the gates and WWX, who is still not fully recovered, sees that LWJ is about to be hurt and jumps down from the wall or sends a talisman that kills everyone around him maybe? I can’t remember exactly, just that he freaks out and sees red and a bunch of Wens are slaughtered (pretty sure Wen Xu among them). Anyway, I hope that’s enough for someone to recognize the story. I’d love to read it again. Thanks for all your hard work!

FOUND? 🧡 To have and to hold by Moominmammashandbag (M, 78k, WangXian, JFM & YZY, JYL/NMJ, Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major character injury, CQL verse, Happy Ending) I agree, there's no arranged marriage but LWJ uses the cold pond incident from CQL to claim they are already married. This is the fic with the bad exploding talisman. // it isn't an arranged marriage it is that Lan Zhan married them in the cold spring

FOUND? so i cut the shackles and changed my name by MichelleFeather (T, 45k, WangXian, LQR & LWJ, LQR & CSSR, LQR & WWX, CSSR/WCZ, WWX & Lan Clan, WIP, WWX Leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, WWX is a Lan, Good Uncle LQR, Supportive LQR, Protective LQR, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, JFM & YZY Bashing, Jiang Family Bashing, Abusive Jiang Family, Running Away, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Hurt WWX, Genius WWX, No Sunshot Campaign, Gusu Lan Sect Rules, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Cultivation Sect Politics, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Divergence, Protective Gusu Lan Sect, WRH isn't a power hungry tyrant - mostly, BSSR is WWX's Grandparent, JGS Being JGS, Warning: JGS)

~*~

2. Hello! For fic finder please: it was an organised crime AU, modern day or 20th century, and LWJ was the enforcer for the Lans, hyper competent and cold

I think fairly long? The Jiangs were another crime family, Yanli was very highly respected but she never told her brothers what exactly she had done to earn her place @chalionkat

Thanks but I don't think so, it wasn't ABO

But thanks for trying!

NOT FOUND! haven't read this one but the description sounds like 🔒🧡 Rule Number One: Never get attached. by KizuKatana (E, 130k, WangXian, Modern AU, A/B/O, Criminal underworld AU, Fluff and angst, Crime boss LWJ, Rouge criminal genius WWX, Explicit Sex)

FOUND? It's possible that #2 is Empire of Dirt by Fireawayy, but it is no longer up on AO3

FOUND?🔒Words are Gonna Bleed from Me by GravityWinsAgain (E, 183k, WIP, WangXian, SongXiao, 3Zun, XuanLi, QingMian, Triad AU, Blood and Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, i'm not going to tag all of the sex but there will be warnings in the notes, and all of it is skippable as needed, Modern with Magic, Dark Magic, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Murder Husbands, POV WWX, Organized Crime, lovers to enemies to estranged lovers and back to lovers, Angst, BDSM Switch LWJ/BDSM Switch WWX, Ghosts, Body Horror, Temporary Character Death)

~*~

3. A modern fic where lwj got drunk and have sex with wwx but after the drunken night he starts avoiding wwx because he thought he takes advantage of him and wwx gets pregnant and Jiang got to know about this and threw him out of house, he goes to thinking this is the last time he will try to talk to him and to tell lwj that he is pregnant with his child but lwj doesn't listen and send his brother to lie for him that he is not well but wwx caught the lie and thought he is avoiding him so he leave t

FOUND?🔒 Unexpected (Found) Family by tired_laoshi (M, 18k, WIP, WangXian, LQR & WWX, Modern AU, Misunderstandings, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Mpreg, Underage Pregnancy, Single Parent WWX, Good Uncle LQR, Found Family, Jiang Family Bashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Canon-Typical Behavior, Protective LXC, Angst with a Happy Ending)

~*~

4. Hi wangxianficfinder !! I'm looking for a fic that had a very intricate system of folklore and Wei Ying was Finnish (?? I think) and he was taking care of Wen Yuan. Lan Wangji was sent by (i forgot who) to check on the dynamic of their house (??) and ends up staying for a long time and eventually battling some monster with Wei Ying, who uses his (LWJ) back as a guqin to win. Thankss <3 (I also remember something about catholicism being involved)

FOUND? Howling by MimiSpearmint (E, 40k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Mortal Instruments Fusion, Horror, Eldritch, Domestic Fluff, Single Parent WWX,   Witchcraft, Getting Together, shifter!lwj, yllz!wwx, Intercrural Sex, Hand Jobs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Switch WangXian, a bit of a degradation kink, anti-STI sex talismans, Anal Sex, Oral Sex) sounds vaguely like Howling which takes place in Ireland, though, instead of Finland.

~*~

5. Hi! For the fic finder, I read someone's comment on a tiktok just now that got me really interested!

It was a canon divergent I think, they only said that instead of WWX, JWY is the one thrown in the burial mounds without a core, but fails to cultivate resentfull energy and the ghost path, so WWX is still the main force in the war, just with tradicional cultivation.

~*~

6. hi!!! thank you guys so much for all you do! i was wondering if you could help me find a fic! it was a canon compliant fic of the sun shot campaign but wy was a mermaid. i think lz found out during the cold pool cave? if wy doesn’t transform every so often his scales start to push out of his skin which happened during the wen lecture (i think wq knew about wy)

~*~

7. hiii this is for fic finder. i found this ss in my gallery, all ik is thay wen wing says this about wwx, maaaybe to lwj

"In my defense, I was expecting someone much older and visibly demonic, not a friendly shop cat in human form metaphorically twining around my ankles." @bunnycoffeeumcat

~*~

8. Hi! Thanks for your help the last time. Now I'm looking again for a FanFiction. CQL POST CANON.

After Wei Ying's departure to travel the world, he and Lan Zhan maintained a correspondence through letters. One day, however, Lan Zhan received no letter, prompting him to embark on a search for Wei Ying. He found Wei Ying gravely injured and near death within a cave, the victim of an attack by a monstrous creature resembling a half-dog. Remarkably, Wei Ying had stitched his own wounds using the yarn Lan Zhan had provided. @lu-wanji

FOUND? the soft animal of your body by howodd5ever (M, 21k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Episode 50, CQL canon, WWX has feelings about having a body, sort of a case fic, a little bit of epistolary goodness, graphic descriptions of wounds, Feelings About Death, wwx gets seriously injured, Art Embedded, wound-tending as an act of love, Bathing/Washing, Sharing a Bed, Finding home)

~*~

9. Hi awesome mods, Looking for a fic inspired by a cobaltmoony art where there is a tentacle monster and Lan Wangji. Something about him being a sacrifice is all I remember

~*~

10. Im looking for a fic on ao3 where cloud recesses arc Wei Wuxian somehow experienced lan Zhans incense burner dream which pushes him to realise his feelings much much quicker and get engaged to lan zhan, i think it had the supportive lan qiren tag on it but i dont remember much else

Thank you in advance! @eyalsfantasy

FOUND! 🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 947k, WangXian, WIP, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Getting Together, Supportive LQR, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Supportive LXC, Canon Divergence, Inventor WWX, Possessive LWJ, Cultivation Sect Politics, Pre-Sunshot Campaign, Fluff and Smut, Burning of the Cloud Recesses, Fall of Lotus Pier, Angst, Sunshot Campaign Not JFM Friendly)

~*~

11. for ff: I lost a modern era fic where immortal lwj and some others rescue a reincarnated wwx from a room/building he's been locked into by some well-meaning people; possibly they run the orphanage. wwx was trying to contact lwj and everyone thought he was crazy since he's just some random teen and hgj is a big deal cultivator. I don't remember anything else just a big dramatic scene and I think someone flew through a window at one point. thanks 💙

FOUND? find me in the future by antebunny (G, 7k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Soulmates, Immortality, Reincarnation, Found Family, vague historical descriptions, this is simultaneously, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Post-Canon)

~*~

12. i'd like to try looking again for a fic i couldn't find a few years ago 🙏🏽

it's a fic where lwj thinks that wwx’s prank with the porn book is specifically making fun of him for being a cutsleeve (wwx of course didn’t know)

i think lwj kicks wwx out from the library first and he deals with his hurt alone about being subject to homophobia, then the hurt carries for a while and during his confronting wwx about it…

(it's not 'don't close your eyes' by howodd5ever) thank you !!!

~*~

13. I need help to find a lost fic. in it the juniors used an array to make a portal through time to grab wwx as he fell from the cliff at nightless city. they succeed but wind up having to swim out of a lake because something about the array turned the mountaintop they were on into a lake. I think the plan was sizhui's idea.

FOUND? Would You Come Home? by s6115 (Not rated, 46k, WangXian, Junior Quartet Centric, Time Travel Fix-It, Canon Divergence, Junior Quartet Dynamics)

~*~

14. Hello and thank you for your hard work!!! I read this one a long time ago and I had searched my bookmarks but to no avail I couldn't find it. It's a Canon Divergence one, I don't remember if WWX separates from the Jiang Sect or if he didn't go there at all but the only thing I remember it's that later on a inn in Yiling or Qishan WWX finds a letter that his parents left for him that says that he shouldn't go to the Jiang Sect. That's all I remember, you'll have my thank if you could find it!!

FOUND? so i cut the shackles and changed my name by MichelleFeather (T, 45k, WangXian, LQR & LWJ, LQR & CSSR, LQR & WWX, CSSR/WCZ, WWX & Lan Clan, WIP, WWX Leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, WWX is a Lan, Good Uncle LQR, Supportive LQR, Protective LQR, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, JFM & YZY Bashing, Jiang Family Bashing, Abusive Jiang Family, Running Away, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Hurt WWX, Genius WWX, No Sunshot Campaign, Gusu Lan Sect Rules, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Cultivation Sect Politics, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Divergence, Protective Gusu Lan Sect, WRH isn't a power hungry tyrant - mostly, BSSR is WWX's Grandparent, JGS Being JGS, Warning: JGS)

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15. hi! not sure if my fic finder request ask got eaten by Tumblr but if so just wanted to send another one if that's ok! thank you!

I can't find this longer one shot (~20k words) I read a few years ago featuring wei ying, wen qing, and wen ning, and it was about wei ying running away and living alone feeling guilty with a leg injury after a car crash with him, jc, and yl inside a car. I remember he met wen qing at a supermarket where he worked and he and wen qing were arguing about him not getting physical therapy for his leg and the fic ended on a hopeful note where he was taking care of plants and thinking about contacting his siblings (and lan zhan)

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16. hi! I'm looking for two fics. I believe there is a time travel aspect for both. A) the first, wwx ends up making a deal with the emperor for land by his borders by repairing a barrier that WRH had found a hole in and was attacking them. He uses this land to create a village and sect that is protected. He even sections off a section in the mountain for him and lwj to have a home away from it all.

B) there is also another fic I’m trying to find where I think he finds ancient buildings in a different part of the burial mounds. I think it was like ancient pagodas with detailed markings. He raises the dead to keep creating more structures, tilling fields, etc. It had been cleansed by WWX and basically glowed. Wen Qing and Wen Ning are also there and scramble down with WWX to find the magistrate of Yiling and claim the Burial Mounds (now cleansed and immortal lands) for themselves before the sects notice. I remember there was an aspect where after the war, the Jin were slowly making it to where all trade would be forced to go through them with exorbitant costs to protect from “bandits.” WWX had protected the burial mounds territory and surrounding areas during the war, so he wasn't struggling financially. As such, he created a trade deal with QHN so they could use the routes and protections without the fees. @iznaluvr

16A)

FOUND? Chronicles of Sect Leader Wei Wuxian by Muggle_Diary (E, 114k,WangXian, XuanLi, JFM/YZY, CSSR/WCZ, LXC/LQY, NMJ/QS, WQ/OC, OFC/ OFC, JC/ OFC, Sect Leader WWX, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Different First Meeting, Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, Anal Sex, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, Sex Toys, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Rough Sex, Child Abuse, Child Death, War Hero WWX, Sunshot Campaign, No Golden Core Transfer, WWX Leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, Cultivation Sect Politics, Wen Remnants Live, Abusive YZY, Abusive Jiang Family, Bad Parents JFM and YZY, JC Bashing, JFM and YZY Bashing, Yunmeng Jiang Sect Bashing, JYL and JZX Live, Jiang Family Bashing) I think 16A might be Chronicles of Sect Leader Wei Wuxian, although it isn't a time travel story. // yes, i was thinking about that story too

FOUND? 🔒 Building it back, stone by stone and seal by seal by KizuKatana (M, 134k, WangXian, WWX & Wen Remnants, WWX & Wen Siblings, canon-divergent, post cultivation war, nobody won, WWX starts out alone as a fugitive lone cultivator, then finds a home, then finds a family, not a reincarnation fic, just alternate reality where not everyone who was in original canon existed during the war, starting the cultivation world over from scratch, Found Family, Comfort fic, carving out a new safe home, First Time) although it's not time travel. It's also an OUTSTANDING story, so even if it's not the right one I highly recommend it.

16B)

FOUND? 🔒 From a Single Plank Bridge to Celestial Ascension: Immortal Wei Sanren by Loli (Lohi_loli) (E, 85k, WangXian, MM/WQ, WN & WQ, Jiang Family & OCs, Lan Family & WWX, WIP, Time Travel Fix-It, Rebirth, Immortality, Jiang Family Bashing, LXC BashingFix-It of SortsBottom Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Top Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian

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17. hello! I want to find this one fic that's basically a butterfly effect(?). nhs fails in resurrecting wwx and mxy dies in vain. then sizhui and jingyi dies at the mo village arc bc wwx isn't there and lwj was too late to save them (i remember lwj also commits su*cide later after the events). jin ling also dies during the dafan mountain and jc apparently also died when wen ning rips out his golden core because wen ning's state of mind is still at that time where wwx was about to give his golden core to jc and wen ning didn't recognize jc during this part. after this, there were the other chapters where wwx basically didn't exist. jc has a second shidi in these chapters who died later on after the fall of lotus pier while he and jc were on the run and i think jc started victim-blaming his dead shidi. lwj and jzx were also beaten up at the xuanwu of slaughter cave here. then on the other chapters were from that second shidi's pov, he practically watches wwx's life story and stuff. i haven't finished the fic and i really wanted to read it again, if you could find it. thank you so much!

FOUND? If Wei Wuxian Did Not Exist by Anonymous (Not Rated, 191k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, what if, Character Death, KARMA and Retribution, Time Travel, Or actually Time Rewind?, Not for jc stans)

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18. A) where lwj is an immortal in modern au waiting for his husband to reincarnate, then he finds him, as a camboy B) Where lwj is ceo/rich/sugar daddy to amnesiac wwx and wwx thinks he's only a replacement for someone else, not knowing that someone is himself C) wwx had been sugar baby to many men, till he meets lwj, and he worries about if he finds out about other sugar daddies which he only go out with no sex or anything, for money to help his siblings and pay the bills

18A)

FOUND? 🧡 All Old Things are New Again by The Feels Whale (miscellea) (M, 51k, WangXian, Reincarnation, Modern AU, canon still happened, extreme post canon, Sugar Daddy, Kink Negotiation, gentle dom!LWJ, canonical levels of consent play, Modern Cultivators, cultivators can recognize important people from previous lives, vaguely, this started out as a cute sugar fantasy and got just incredibly horny very fast, blame LWJ)

18B)

FOUND? 🔒 Snow by kuro (M, 38k, WangXian, Modern, Snow, Sick Character, Caretaking, Fluff, Sugar Daddy, only they’re like… bad at it, Angst, Rabbits, Food, Sexy Times, occasionally)

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19. Hey! Thanks for all the wonderful work you do! I need some help looking for a fic which I read some time ago but now can't seem to find again. As far as I remember, the premise was that, after SSC, some Lan disciples overhear JC threatening WWX in some manner and that somehow turns into the rumor of JC abusing WWX and everyone getting quite protective of WWX by the end, most notably LWJ but I think NHS also got quite involved. I'd really appreciate the help finding this fic again! Thx!

FOUND? 🔒 chapter 15 from short prompts by Vrishchika

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20. Hi there! I'm looking for a long(ish?) fic I read on AO3 probably over a year ago. It's a modern AU, and LWJ and WWX meet (or meet again?) and start hooking up, with WWX giving off 'wild, experienced, and carefree vibes' (possibly he was a virgin going into this, or at least very inexperienced and lying about it). After a few hot hookups, he gets an emergency call of some sort and has to come clean that he's actually an overworked single dad who doesn't have time for dating and can't keep up with the wild sex lifestyle no matter how much he wants to. LWJ ends up meeting A-Yuan and of course instantly is like "This is my future son, when can we get married?'... and then takes the rest of the fic to actually say that out loud. Can anyone help? I've been searching through my bookmarked fics for a few days and can't find it using the obvious tags and summary skimming. I hope it wasn't deleted! @alychelms

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